


Always a Thief

by brummiebex, buckydeservedmorepassiton (brummiebex)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-12-17 01:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/brummiebex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/buckydeservedmorepassiton
Summary: An affluent Frenchwoman friend of Tommy's gets roped into his dealings with Alfie Solomons. By her own admission, she's a thief, and that's precisely how she's made her millions. Alfie sets his eyes on the illusive Claire Laurent, against Tommy's suggestions. The three make an interesting gang, never quiet trusting one another, but being far too invested to give in to their reservations.Until, Tommy's pride causes him to make a egregious error, one that comes up again and again, and ultimately threatens to cost him his only two friends in the country.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! I'm back with another Peaky fic. 
> 
> Always a Thief's timeline is somewhere along season two, dealing with Darby Sabini as the main antagonist, but skips about to bring Charlie and Grace into the picture. Other clarifying details will come up in the notes as the chapters progress!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S.
> 
> All recognizable characters are the property of BBC, I place no claim on anything besides my OCs and original work.

Claire Laurent enjoyed the company of the Shelby brothers to no end—but just then, they had begun to tax what was left of her patience. 

Just then, they t were bickering with one another, all three of them illuminated by the warm, orange flickers of the hearth. Tommy’s voice, smooth as crushed black velvet and just as dark, was quickly drowned out by his brothers. Arthur’s was a grating sound, and though he didn’t raise his voice, it was much louder than Tommy’s; but not as loud as John’s, whose voice Claire likened to a disgruntled bird of some sort. 

“Boys,” Claire manages their attention, raising her eyebrows. “Out with it.”

“We,” Tommy breathes, then quickly corrects himself when he sees Arthur gearing up to interject, “_I_, need a favor from you.”

“Well, why couldn’t we have started with that?” She smiled sweetly. Claire knew she wouldn’t be doing Tommy any favors, though. Those things always seemed to cost her dearly; but curiosity still plagues her. “What is it you need?”

“Something you stole.” He says clearly, “I need you to return it.” 

Her eyebrows go up. “Return it? You understand the concept of theft, _cheri_?”

“Yes. You stole from a friend of mine.” He says quietly. “Afriend I desperately need to win back onto my side. I need a grand gesture of sorts.”

“Aw,” Claire tuts. “What is it you did to piss her off?”

“Him.” Tommy corrects. “I shot at him.”

“Of _course_ you did.” 

He sighs, “I shot him because I thought he meant to cross me. Also, he tried to shoot me first, I might add.” 

“You know how I hate guns. Dreadful things—there should be craft applied to the end of a man’s life, a level of delicacy that a gun could never execute.” She grumbles, watching Tommy grow slightly disinterested in her rant.

“_Claire_,” 

“Yes, well,” She frowns, “You’ll have to tell me exactly what you seek, Tommy. How do you even know it was me who stole it?”

“It’s a Faberge egg.” He nods and wags his finger, “And I know you stole it, because no one else is brave enough to steal from Alfie Solomons.”

“Who?” She offers with a little disinterested eye-roll. Arthur chuckles, finishing off his whiskey. 

“How much do you want for it?”

“Tommy, darling. It’s of royal provenance. You couldn’t put a price on it.” 

“You can put a price on anything.”

“No,” She bites, eyeing him over the edge of her glass. “I mean _you_ couldn’t put a price on it. I’m sorry darling, it’s worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. Even more now that it’s been stolen. You couldn’t afford any price I put on it.”

Tommy purses his lips, however, it’s in contemplaton, and not in the slightest bit offended by her jab. She knew just how much Tommy was worth—if she said he couldn’t afford it, he knew he couldn’t. 

Arthur, feeling a little smiley from the whiskey, drawls out, “We’ll give you John.”

At that, John pipes up, “Sorry, what?”

Claire’s fluttery laugh causes the three brothers to laugh as well, “Arthur, darling, what will I do with John?”

“You’ve been lookin’ for a strapping young lad haven’t you?” He nudges her arm, making her giggle. “There he is—fresh-faced and at yer’ service.”

She grins, taking a sip of her wine again. Tommy looked amused, as if he were wondering if she were truly contemplating taking his brother as payment. By the way John had been stressing him out lately, she thinks he’d welcome the trade. Claire, however, was thoroughly aware that John Shelby was not worth a Faberge. No man was. 

“John is the furthest thing from a ‘fresh-faced virgin’, Arthur,” She giggles. 

“Now, I didn’t say anything about ‘im being a virgin, did I?”

“Far from it,” Tommy finishes off his whiskey with a little quip. 

“And he’d _married_.” Claire grins. “Been married a few years now, too. Forget about _Mrs_. John Shelby, did you?” 

Arthur makes a gesture with his hands as if the man’s marraige would be of no consequence. Claire pats his arm disapprovingly. 

“What if I could get you another man?” 

The words came from Tommy, and when she looks up at him, he wonders if she had heard him correctly. His face isn’t off-putting, but it’s stern, the way he set it when he was bartering with his brothers. After all, Claire got under his skin just about as much as they did. . 

“I don’t want a man.” Claire says with a little sigh. This always happened—she wasn’t a _fan_ of men, and they knew it. Yet, they never gave up this illusion of her married to a tame, shrew of a man that she could steer around they way they all did their wives. John had gone as far as to imagine him being blond, because _‘Your eyes with blond hair? You’d make some beautiful babies, Claire!’_

“Not a man to wed.” He sighs, “Or _bed, _ I know you aren’t into that_.”_

“What use could I have for a man if not those two?” 

“I am well-aware of your aversion to our sex, Claire.” He smiles, sitting back in the armchair. “I’m offering you a partner. A man to _work with_, so to speak, in the way I imagine you’d appreciate.” 

“What way is that?” She arches an eyebrow at him—leave it to Tommy to suggest something off-the-wall and catch her attention so quickly.

“Same way you work with me,” He gives a little shrug. “Except I think this man would prove to be a bit more useful than myself.”

“Mock selflessness,” She tuts, “You’re serious, then?”

“You’ve told us time and time again why you don’t work with men.” He pats his pockets for a cigarette. “We’re handsy, right? Talk too much, listen too little?”

“_Oui_,” 

“Well, Mr. Solomons is a member of an oppressed people, yeah? He knows what its like to be ignored, and so to spite it, he treats everyone the same—women included.” 

“Yes, of course,” She rolls her eyes in playful jest, “Praise the Jew for lowering himself in status enough to work with a woman.” 

Tommy, sat back in his chair, grins at her, “He’s got a tongue like yours—you’re both sardonic in that way that common men like us don’t appreciate enough. I think he’ll like you.”

“I stole from him, I doubt he’ll like me.” Also, she didn’t _care _if he liked her. 

“You don’t know him.”

“I know enough about him, now. Thanks to you.”

“But you don’t know _him_.” He stresses, leaning forward now. “Tell you what, he pisses you off, rubs you the wrong way, anything, I’ll get the fuckin’ egg back to you.” 

“You’d steal from him, too?” She chuckles, “Tommy, I’m begining to think a whole lot of your problems could be solved by you learning what exactly constitutes friendship.” 

“No, no.” He blows out a stripe of smoke, “That’s not stealing from him, that’s stealing for _you_.” 

“I’m charmed.” 

And she was. She thought about it for a moment. Would it be so bad to make another friend in England’s underground? She would have to look into this Solomons. Nonetheless, Tommy had sold his friend to her like he did any bit of business, like a paperboy selling yesterday’s prints—which makes her idly wonder if he’d ever offered her up the same way. Then she wonders what she was even thinking about it for; of _course_ he had. He was Thomas Shelby. 

“Wonderful.” Tommy hums, his voice quiet but rumbling. “You’re considering it.”

“Am I?” 

“Well, you haven’t shot the idea down yet.”

She blinks at him. Sometimes, in moments like this, she wondered if it was good to have friends that knew her this well, or if it were one of those mistakes she’d pay for dearly in the future. 

The egg, she thought, had become one of her favorite possessions—but she had had the thought to rid herself of it. The same way she had stolen it from Solomons, someone would eventually try to steal it from her. Only, where the only thing Solomon had worth stealing had been the Faberge, she had untold treasures in her Warwickshire estate; rooms upon rooms of stolen goods, and if one were to arrive with the intent to steal the egg, she was certain they’d leave with more than that. 

“Fine.” She hums, swishing her wine around in her glass. “Set it up.”

“Thank you.” Tommy says after a moment—and it was a genuine sentiment, one she rarely heard from the Brummie, but she always savored every single one she recieved. 

John shifts in his seat with a grin—the grin Claire had grown to associate with the cocky little tilt in his voice whenhe got ready to be suggestive. “Well—if you’d still like to purchase my services, I’d be happy to offer them.”

He didn’t even get to finish his offer—Tommy threw his hat at him, and the four of them erupted in laughter.


	2. Of Men and Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire fulfills her promise to Tommy by returning the Faberge egg to Mr. Solomons, and their meeting has quite the effect on them both.

Chapter One: _Of Men and Miracles_

Mr. Solomons was not the sort of man Claire expected him to be, at least not from the description Tommy had left her with. 

Alfie Solomons carried himself like he got what he wanted out of the world, by grace or by force. 

He walked and talked and _looked_ like a man you should fear. Not like Tommy, whose dominance came from what pretty words he could spin to sway men to murder. Solomon’s came from what the man himself was capable of, what havoc his very own hands could cause. That thought, paired with the menacing _step-step-clink!_ of his walking stick through the empty theater made Claire’s stomach drop.

But she hadn’t shown it—no, she kept her face relaxed and pleasant, as it always was. She was the only woman in the room, and although most people would see that as a vulnerability, she knew it was a strength. 

“Alfie, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Tommy says in a welcoming voice. _Well, as welcoming as the man was capable of. _

Alfie doesn’t respond immediately, he rakes his eyes across the little group assembled before him. His eyes settle on Arthur, who’s directly at Claire’s left, clenching his fist tightly, “Tommy, what ‘id I tell you about us doin’ business with yer feral brother around?”

“I’m afraid he’s not here at my own request.” Tommy states quietly. Arthur crosses his hands across his chest. 

“And whose request would he be here on?” Alfie’s voice rises.

Before Tommy could reply, Claire rises to her feet. Alfie’s earlier scan of the room had stopped short of landing on her—whether he hadn’t seen her, or had indeed and just dismissed her presence was not known. 

Through slitted eyes, she gazes out at him, and offers a dark smile. The thickest of French accents spills through her lips. “Mine, Mr. Solomons.” She offers her hand, “Claire Laurent.” 

Alfie hums, as though he’scontemplating her words, but takes her hand nonetheless, pressing it to his whiskered lips. “Pleasure, Miss. Y’got a soft spot for rabid animals?” 

She grins, settling a hand on Arthur’s twitching arm.“Might we be civil?”Her voice is smooth and clever on its way out, and Alfie can just _feel_ that she’s got too much knowledge between her ears. Her smile reveals it: she knows of Arthur and his past transgressions, and not just in the obvious way his glare suggested. He knew that she knew details—it was written in her smirk.

He sighs, his eyes raking over her one more time before he returns his glance to Tommy, “Listen, Shelby, not that I’m not most…delighted to meet Miss Laurent, but you, of all fuckin’ people, should know I don’t like new faces, n’matter how pretty they are.”

“Well, Alfie, I’m afraid Claire’s reputation precedes her.” Tommy says gently. 

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Alfie asks, his face growing annoyed. “Y’called me here to talk business, yeah? Well, start fuckin’ talking.”

Tommy begins to speak, but Claire cuts him off, “Are you always this impatient, _Monsieur_ Solomons?” her voice is dainty, and smooth. Alfie isn’t sure if she’s a whore or a noblewoman—her tone and her cadence, her eyes and her dress, they all seemed to suggest then disprove the other. 

“Only when my time’s wasted, Miss Laurent.” He turns to her and takes a good look this time. 

Miss Laurent is wearing a long, black, satin dress, with a thick black fur shawl draped around her shoulders. Her hair, Alfie notices with a flicker of interest, is much longer than women these days tended to wear theirs. Her dark brown locks are twirled up into an updo, no doubt from the show she’d attended earlier. That explained the souped up attire of the two Shelby men as well; they’d all probably seen the show, and stuck around to conduct business. 

“I apologize if you’ve gotten the impression that it’s my intention to waste your time,” She says in what initially sounds like an apologetic tone, but stretches out too long to be genuine, “I understand you to be a busy man.”

“You understand, yeah?” Alfie asks, watching her stalk in front of Arthur. The bloke doesn’t even look at her, just keeps his eyes trained on Alfie. 

“Yes, completely.” She stops, looking at him seriously. “The Shelbys have proven themselves to be great business partners to me, you see. I assume they’ve been good to you as well, no? Seeing that you’ve come here in good faith, without much of an explanation.”

“Tommy’s an idiot, yeah?” He says with a grunt, which makes Tommy shove his hands in his pocket and stand back on his heels. “Vindictive. Cold. Would probably sell me for a shiny coin, wouldn’t he? But he’s good at making me money.” 

“Yes,” Claire nods, now beside Tommy in her little walk around their little circle. “They’ve been exceptional to me. Never failed me once. So when Tommy came to me and asked me about a job I’d done, well, I had no reason to lie to him.”

“And what exactly is it you do, Miss Laurent?” Alfie asks, a little hum punctuating his question, “Because Tommy and his feral kin don’t exactly have many friends, yeah? So I’m guessing you were of use to each other at some point or another?”

“A bit of this and that.” Claire waves her hand, dismissing his assumptions, “But you’re wrong there, we’ve grown to be quite close friends, haven’t we Tommy?”

“Friends indeed,” Tommy says, his hands still in his pockets, his glare still focused on Alfie. “That’s why you need to listen to her, Alfie. For once in your life be slow to anger, please.”

Alfie glances at the two of them, at the way Claire’s elbow had perched on Tommy’s shoulder and her head had rested on her hands. He’d never seen anyone that close to a man as dangerous as Tommy Shelby, much less a woman. Clearly, Claire Laurent was not like any woman he’d ever seen before. 

He grunts, “That sounds like a threat, coming from you, Tom.”

“It could be.” Arthur croaks behind him. 

“Boys,” Claire sings, her voice wafting through the air like a breeze. “Threats are unnecessary. Mr. Solomons strikes me as a reasonable man.”

“I try to be.” Alfie nods, but points his cane at her, and drops his voice low. “_Until_ people start wasting my time. Get on with it.”

Claire pouts, and lets out a sigh. “Alright, Mr. Solomons.” She steps towards him, and Tommy mirrors the action until she sends a little knowing glance at him that makes him step back. Dare he say it—the glance Tommy throws his way is one of hesitance, not on Claire’s behalf, but for Alfie’s. “You’ve been looking for a man called Clarence Dubois. He stole something important from you, as it goes.”

Alfie tenses, his glare landing on Tommy in a silent condemnation for his having told her, but Claire tuts.

“Don’t be daft, _Monsieur, _Thomas didn’t tell me.” She cuts, almost offended at the insinuation. “You can stop looking for him. Even if you turned this city upside down, you wouldn’t find him.”

“Oh yeah?” He takes a step towards her, which gains a grunt from Arthur. “Why is that?”

She arches an eyebrow at him, as if he was a few steps behind the curve. It makes him simmer with anger. 

“Because Clarence Dubois doesn’t exist.” She says, patronizingly, and starts towards where she was seated originally. Her purse, a little black satin thing, was draped over the back of the seat. She picks it up and clicks it open, stalking back to him. 

“What is this?” Alfie glares at Tommy. 

“Clarence doesn’t exist, Alfie, but _Claire_ does.” Tommy says, the corner of his lip tilting up. 

“This is purely a gesture given to appease the party we have in common, Mr. Solomons.” She says, distaste thick in her voice. She slips her satin gloves on. “Quite frankly, you don’t deserve this piece—what with pitiful security you kept her under.”

Her gloved hand slips into the purse, and fetches out a shiny little pink egg, adorned with filigree and diamonds and opal gemstones. 

Alfie’s heavy tongue clicks in his mouth. “Well, you’ve impressed me, doll.” He glances her up and down, “But I’m afraid I’ll need to know who you’ve pinched it from, yeah?” 

“Is he normally this dense?” She says, thick lashes flitting from the egg over Alfie’s shoulder at Tommy. 

“No, not typically.” Tommy returns, his voice indifferent.

Alfie begins to speak, but Claire cuts him off. Her eyes are on the egg, turning it over in her hands, 

“January 19th. You kept her in a mahogany jewelry box, the inside of it is lined with black velvet. I went in through the second story window. A shame you keep them unlocked. The men watching your house, also, should be,—” She waves a hand, “—_disposed_ of. They were asleep in the car out front. If I had been interested in anything other than the art you keep, you could have been a dead man, yes? Fortunately for you, I don’t harm anything without a bounty.”

The last words bite, and Alfie’s face is one of bewilderment. He wanted to kill her—or have her killed, rather, because some part of him knew that if his hands got around her neck, they couldn’t possibly stay there. 

“Nonetheless, Mr. Solomons,” She frowns. “Tommy had informed me that he’s fallen out of your good graces—silly boy, he is—and needed himself a grand gesture to secure his place back there. This is me being a friend to him, returning something I stole. I’d apologize, but I wouldn’t mean it, and that serves neither of us any good.”

She takes his hand, _much_ larger than her own, and sets the egg in his palm, under a one of her satin gloves. 

Then, wiping her hands together, settles her purse on her shoulder. She points a thin, manicured finger at Tommy, “Right then, Thomas, you’re out of favors until Christmas, understood?” 

He nods, “A million thanks, Clairey. I know it’s difficult for you to part with your conquests.” 

She hums a little sound of agreement, and turns to Arthur, sending a hand to his cheek and kissing the other, leaving a little red kiss mark on his cheek. “Oh, but for this one, _mon doux,_ the world, yes?”

“Take care, Claire. Send my love to Marcy.” Arthur’s deep voice croaks.

“I shall.” She hums, taking one last look at Mr. Solomon’s flabbergasted face, and offers a sweet little smile, before turning to exit. “_Au revoir, Monsieur _Solomons_,” _She calls over her shoulder,and disappears through the large doors, into the night. 

The sound of the doors creaking shut, paired with Tommy’s little laugh, snaps Alfie back into the present. He couldn’t possibly unpack everything he’d just experienced—that little minx had broken into his home, stole something he himself had only just stolen, and by the persuasion of _Tommy Shelby, _returned it? He can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, as well. 

“Tommy... talk.” Alfie says in that vaguely authoritative way he had about him. He did not really have any other words to explain his thoughts, so he hoped Tommy could supply some.

“I’m just glad that she parted with it, yeah Tom?” Arthur sighs, “I thought we’d have to pry it from ‘er hands.” 

“Aye,” Tommy agrees, sparking up a cigarette. “I thought she’d leave here kicking and screaming, to be quite honest.” 

“That one?” Alfie turns, slipping the egg into his pocket and looking at Tom. “Hardly think she’d be capable of it, mate.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Arthur says, his voice a clear warning.

Alfie furrows his brows and narrows his eyes at the pair of brothers, “Why haven’t I heard of this Miss Laurent?” 

“You mightn’t have heard of her, but I’m certain you know her work.” Tommy says, glancing down at Alfie’s pocket. “You two have quite the hobby in common.”

“Does she like these pretty eggs as much as me, Tom? An' don’t go saying yes without thinking hard enough, yeah? I take me Faberge quite serious, mate.” 

“Alfie,” Tom takes a step towards him. “When you said it’d been stolen, from the likes of you, from your very home, nonetheless, I knew there was no thief bold enough to have done the job than Miss Laurent herself.” 

He hums, acknowledging Tom’s words. Then he gestures to the room, “And why are we here, yeah? Y’know I’m not one for the fuckin’ opera. Just me fuckin’ car in a place like this raises suspicion.” 

“Miss Laurent is a very busy lady,” He says with a sigh. “She was attending the opera tonight. It was more convenient for her.”

“More convenient.” Alfie repeats, then offers a bit of a breathy laugh, “Fuckin’ whipped she’s got ya?” 

“Look, Alfie,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “She agreed to return the egg tonight, yeah, as per our agreement. I have no knowledge as to whether or not she’ll try to steal it again. I got it back once, I can’t promise you twice. So for fuck’s sake, lock yer windows.”

That garners another laugh, a deep belly laugh at the mere thought of it. Little thing scooting up his drain pipe and slipping though the window undetected, like a fuckin’ cat she probably moved through the night. His anger had smoothed over now. It had completely turned that heat into attraction—both physically, because the woman had quite the form, but also mentally, because it was difficult not to admire her craft. 

“Watch that smile, mate.” Arthur warns again, his voice sharp. 

Alfie can’t help it—he couldn’t get rid of that shit-eating grin if he wanted to. 

“Oh what? Am I not supposed to be intrigued? Thats—that’s fuckin’ marvelous, isn’t it? She set the fuckin’ thing in me hand and left! I’ve killed men with these hands, Arthur, and she just snapped it up and set the pretty little egg in it, like it’s nothing.” 

Arthur scoffs, “She’s killed men with her hands, too, mate.”

Alfie’s face had contorted with disbelief to a degree that caused Arthur to chuckle, “Wh—what, I’m supposed to think that little sprite of a woman has harmed anything in her entire life? What with that little drama she put on for us?”

Tommy snorts as well, the humor of the situation not lost on him. “She’s fond of theatrics, but she’s got the skill and the conviction to back it up.”

The thought consumed him—she had skill and conviction, aye? He hums, and taps his walking stick on the ground twice. Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he says,“I want her.” 

That causes a choked sound from Tommy, making the gangster cough twice on his cigarette smoke. “Sorry, what?” 

Arthur’s eyebrows go up, as if he had expected a _‘dead’_ to follow up Alfie’s statement, but when it doesn’t, a small smirk sits on his lips.

Alfie points his cane at the door she’d left through. “I said, _‘I want her’_.” 

Tommy offers a little, patronizing chuckle, and a clap on his shoulder. “Yeah, good _fuckin_’ luck with that, mate.” 

* * *

The drive out of London had been most desperate. Claire had sat with what was virtually a pout on her lips all the way home.Upon entering the house, it disappeared physically, but remained there looming and gloomy in the back of her head. It was difficult to enter her estate and still find oneself feeling angry—the place was perpetually lively.

Orgies, parties, little get-togethers, there was something happening there virtually every night. Tonight, it seemed from the sounds emanating from the great room, that there was an orgy taking place. 

She makes her way to down the long marble-floored hallway, where grunts and groans grew louder with each step. Normally, she’d be half-naked before she got to the door, stripping out of her skirts before walking into such a party, but she couldn’t be bothered—she was still reeling from the loss of her Faberge. Her long silk dress drags along the floor and she makes no attempt to lift it. 

Upon entering the great room, a wave of heat covered her the very second the doors had opened. Of course, with all the naked writhing bodies on the floor, the fire was kept much hotter than it normally would be otherwise.

Marcelle greets her first, arms raised and a pitiful look on her sharp features. French rattles off her tongue as she rises from the sea of lovers on the carpet. “_Mon amor_, _is it done?_” 

“_Oui,_” Claire murmurs, and watches Marcelle approach her. The woman was tall and lean, her hair cropped at her shoulders and wild from the night’s activity. She wore a thin pink robe that was untied, covering her small chest barely, and a pair of loose silk pants. The color and fit was feminine, but the way the woman wore it couldn’t be further from dainty. 

She wraps her arms around Claire, and her fingers don’t hesitate to slip over her shoulders and up her neck, settling in the curls at the base of Claire’s head. “_Désolé, _” She sighs, and Claire can smell the sweet scent of brandy on her lips. 

Normally, Claire would indulge in the activities taking place mere feet away, but like a petulant child, all she could think of was that damned egg and the way it sat so perfectly in Mr. Solomons hand, even if he didn’t deserve it. She whimpers, and whines out, “I want it back, Marcy.”

Marcelle rubs little circles on her back, being the only person in the world, probably, who understood Claire’s unholy, insanely insatiable, almost sexual attraction to those damned things. She knew Claire’s tantrum was just the vain, spoiled musings of a posh woman, but she consoled nonetheless. “My condolences, _mon amor_, but we both know for you nothing is truly gone, is it?”

“No, she’s gone.” Claire hums, “I won’t take it again.” Then, stepping out of the embrace, she sends a hand down to Marcelle’s thighs. “New trousers you got there?” Then, rubbing her hands up, she hums, “Silk? Very nice.”

Marcelle slaps her hands away with a grin, “Yes, but not for you to soil with your grabby hands.” 

“You should have had a skirt made instead.” She pouts, pulling at the leg, “How else will you get fucked? Pants are too complicated.” 

Marcelle rolls her eyes, and, sensing Claire was too preoccupied to enjoy the night’s festivities, leads them out into the hall. The space is large and the slightest sound echoes, but she speaks openly in French, “_Why is she gone for good? You wont you steal it again_?”

Claire sighs loudly, and shrugs dramatically to match it.At home, when she spoke with other Frenchmen, she preferred the language over English, so it matches Marcelle’s and rattles off of her tongue like poetry,“_The Shelbys need this man for something soon. I’d have to wait at least a quarter of the year before I could safely try again.” _She pouts, her finger tracing over the frame of one of the paintings hung on the wall, and pensively, she adds, _ “I’ll probably forget about her by then. And frankly, I think this Monsieur Alfie just might kill me if I did steal it again._”

“_Very well,_” Marcelle hums, glancing down the hall passively. “_It’s a shame, though. She sat so well in your collection.” _

“_That she did_,” Claire huffs. Her English returns at the thought of Arthur, “Our sweet Arthur sends you his best.” 

_“I’m sure he does._” Marcelle smiles, a glint in her eye at the mention of her favorite Brummie boy. “_Is your business done with the Shelbys?”_

“This bit, yes,” Claire hums, “Have you an offer?”

“_Oui_,” She fetches a little scrap of paper from her pocket. “Are you in Italian favor still?”

“Most of them.” Claire nods, then glances down at her trousers, “_You’ve had that in your pocket while fucking all evening?”_

Marcelle shrugs, “I may have a client for you.”

Claire hums, squinting out at her best gal, “Have we done business with them before?”

“_Oui_, many times—_they want something from the Russians. Have you met with them yet_?”

“No.” She hums. “_I’ve got another client though_, _also looking to get something from the Russians. What is it the Italians need?_”

Marcelle shrugs again, barely offering a little wave of her hand, “_Documents, allegedly_. I’ve written it down in my study. Would you like me to fetch it?”

“No, no.” She shakes her head, “_As long as they seek different things. The other client is looking for ajewelry box. I can do both._”

Marcelle nods, “I see. _Two jobs at once, then?” _

“_Three. The Russians need me to appraise some jewels for them. Two thousand pounds for my services. I won’t even have to break in.” _

A soft little laugh comes from the raven-haired little gypsy. “Have you got no shame, Clairey? Con them over twice and collect their money while you’re at it? It’s obscene.” 

Claire shrugs, gesturing towards the open door, where moans and gasps are escaping from. “We dabble in the obscene, don’t we, _mon amor?_”

“Will you be joining us?” Marcelle hums, “I’ve brought that pretty farm hand you’ve been wanting.”

“Which one?” 

At a loss for his name, she narrows her eyes and stumbles out, “_The blond one. He's got the most lovely lips.”_

Claire pouts and gives a little stomp of her foot. “_Have you had him yet? I wanted him first!” _

_“I have.” _Marcelle grins, “Like a bull, that one. _He’ll turn you back onto men, I promise_.” Claire offers a little humph, paired with another overtly dramatic stomp, turning tail and heading back down the hall. Marcelle’s sweet laugh echoes down the hall. “Where’re you going?”

“To bed!” She shouts, and begins to ascend the stairs towards her bedchambers. “_Keep the noise down, yes?__"_

Marcelle’s laugh fills the space again, before disappearing behind the click of the great hall’s doors.


	3. The Spirit of the Long Con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie corners Tommy into getting him a meeting with Claire; he sets things up, unconventionally.

Chapter Two: _The Spirit of a Con_

Tommy agreed to take another meeting with Mr. Alfie Solomons, against his better judgement. He would need the man in the near future, that much he could admit, so it meant entertaining his delirious fantasies as best he could. 

He came through his office like a man with purpose, frightening the women in the shop, even Lizzie, who Tommy though was used to belligerent men. Nonetheless, he came with heavy steps and clicks of his walking cane, and settled himself down in a chair with a loud creak. 

“Alfie,” Tommy says as a greeting, shutting his diary after learning what he was supposed to be doing during the time Alfie would evidently occupy.

“I’ve seen a lot of women in my day, yeah, Tommy? A whole lot of ‘em.” Alfie says, stroking the whiskers around his face. “But not one of ‘em clever enough to make me think on them twice.”

“Thinking of Miss Laurent are you?” Tommy asks, rhetorically, “Alfie, when I told you ‘good luck’ with wanting her, what I meant was _‘don’t’_.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?” Alfie asks with a deep frown.

Tommy almost starts telling him that it was a waste of time, that his endeavors, no matter how perfect, wouldn’t lead him anywhere, but the little glint in his eyes—one Tommy had never seen there before—makes his pause and take a breath. Addiction causes his fingers to twitch towards his pack of cigarettes, and he settles one between his lips and lights it. 

Alfie, growing impatient, supplies his own answer, “What is it? You’ve tried?”

Tommy shakes his head, “No Alfie,I’m afraid Claire doesn’t look at me that way. She had been friends with Grace.”

“I see.”

“Arthur though,” He points his cigarette at him, “She loves Arthur.”

“Does she now?”

“The two share quite a bit in common, believe it or not,” Tommy hums, moving his ashtray closer so that he could lean back in his chair and not ruin his suit. 

Alfie leans forward, setting his chin on his cane. “Such as?”

“Well, for one, they’re both batshit crazy, yeah?” He blows a stripe of smoke out, “Fuckin’ nuts, both of ‘em.” Pointing the cigarette like an accusing finger, “I’ve seen her murder and maul all on her own, but when the two of them get together? Unstoppable, mate.”

“That little thing?” Alfie asks, unbelieving. “Well, I hardly think she could harm a livin’ thing, Tommy. You’re just trying to steer me off, in’t you? Ya said she didn’t look at _you_ that way, not that you didn’t look at _her_ that way, right?”

“She’s very pretty,” Tommy admits. “But it’s not her looks I like, Alfie. She’s smart—brilliant at what she does—”

“And what exactly is that?”

“For me? She steals. Kills when the pay makes it worth her while.” Tommy shrugs, “She’s fuckin’ good at it. I can afford her, and trust her to get the job done, yeah? So I keep my desire to myself, because that’s too valuable a set of traits in a business partner to jeopardize.”

Alfie grunts in agreement, but the little gleam in his eye doesn’t lessen. If anything, Tommy watches it intensify.

“If you had any sense, you wouldn’t come onto her either. I’m telling you, Alfie, you may need her help in the future. You’ve got a leg in the door with me. Don’t throw that opportunity away because you think she’s a shiny little gem to put on one of your fuckin’ rings.”

“I do need her help.” Alfie sits back with a huff. “I’ve got a job that needs doing yeah? So you’ll utilize that foot you’ve got in that door, and you’ll get me a meeting.”

“Alfie, she just met you!” He almost laughs, “And not under the best of circumstances, I might add. Y’know how much convincing it took for her to give up that fuckin’ egg?”

“I can imagine.” 

“She won’t take a meeting with you. Not yet.” 

Alfie grumbled and grunts to his feet, “Well, Tommy-boy, I’ll tell you what: you’ll be needing me for your little coup on Sabini, right? Well then I’ll be needing a meeting with your gal, then. Y’want this symbiotic relationship to continue, right? Then get me a meeting.”

“Fuckin’ hell, you and your ultimatums.” 

The larger man was almost out of his office, but calls over his shoulder from the doorway, “Get me a meeting!"

Tommy rubbed at his temple with his free hand. He hated the prospect of _that_ relationship coming to fruition. Be it in a business union or a romantic one, Alfie Solomons crossed just about everyone who came into his life. He’d managed to cross Tommy more than once, and they’d almost killed each other a dozen times now. Claire, however, didn’t do anything _almost_.

His sigh is full and exaggerated, fitting to have been caused by two of the most dramatic people he knew. One of those two would cross the other, and he’d be sat having been the one who introduced them, wouldn’t he? 

Lizzy appears in his doorway with a hand on her hip. She smiles down at him, “Should I be arranging a meeting of some sort?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” He hums, rubbing at his eyes through his lids, “No, nothing serious, she won’t take it.”

“Oh.” She says passively. “What’ll you do then?”

“Set something up at the house. For Charlie.” He says, waving his hand with the cigarette. The damn thing had gotten more ash on him than smoke in him. 

“For Charlie?”

“It’s his birthday soon, isn’t it?” He finds himself asking, initially out of annoyance, but after it’s asked, he realized it was out of sincerity. 

“Not for another couple of weeks.” She replies, not entirely surprised by the question.

“Set it up early. Next week.” He says, “And invite Ms. Laurent.”

* * *

The stage had been set for Claire and Alfie’s second meeting. Tommy had toiled endlessly to account for every possible contingency—especially any that could involve Claire obtaining weapons of any kind. 

Candlesticks, pens, and fixings of any kind that came to _any_ sort of point had been removed from plain sight, replaced with flower arrangements and bundles of holly. And for the most part, the subtle switches had gone unnoticed by all. 

Claire didn’t particularly notice the changes Tommy had made to the venue, she had no reason to expect it, so instead, she mingled with all the grace the Shelbys expected of her. Just then, she was chatting with Ada, who, if she were being honest, was probably her favorite Shelby. 

“I long to see him, Ada.” Claire hums, swirling her wine around in its glass. 

“He longs to see you, as well. His Auntie Claire. As soon as he wakes, I’ll bring him down.”

“I bet he’s looking more and more like Freddie every day, isn’t he?”

“Yes. A blessing and a curse.” Ada sighs, and Claire offers her hand on her shoulder in comfort.

“Soon you’ll look at him and see Freddie looking back at you—and it won't hurt, darling. It’ll only be a blessing, nothing near a curse.” 

Claire smiles, and Ada smiles back—a real smile that reaches her eyes.Neither of them notice Polly approaching—no one ever did, the woman always seemed to move in complete silence. She always wonders if that was how people felt when _she _moved quietly and popped up without a sound.

“You two look like you’re moments away from waterworks.” 

Ada chuckles, swiping at her eyes, “Well, it’s Claire’s fault.” 

“Well, enough of it,” Polly hums, “This is no place for tears. It’s a party, after all.”

“You’re in a good mood.” Claire says gently, glancing over her shoulder.

“You aren’t.” Polly quips.

“Your nephews disappeared a while ago.” Claire notes, swirling her wine again. “It’s disconcerting.” 

A grin appears on Polly’s lips, making Claire pout.

“Won’t you tell me, Pol?” Claire whispers. “What is it? Is he mucking about with the Russians again? I could be of use, there, you know? I speak Russian.”

“Of _course_ you speak Russian.” A new voice offers.

Mrs. Linda Shelby joins the conversation with none of the seamless grace Polly did, and it’s Polly who speaks up to answer her.

“Of course she does.” Polly beams, “You’ve spent time in Russia, haven’t you, Claire? Moscow, right?”

“Oui. Nine months.” Claire offers gently, “Linda, darling, you look well.”

“As do you.” Linda smiles a sweet smile at her, and for a fraction of a moment, she thinks she understands how Arthur fell in love with the blonde pilgrim. 

“So, not the Russians, then.” Claire cocks an eyebrow and grins at Polly, who returns a smile. 

“No, it’s not the Russians. I’m afraid it’s something much closer to home.”

Claire doesn’t like the sound of that. At all. It sounds almost like a _threat_, not one from Polly, who would never intentionally do anything to harm Claire, but one that her middle nephew was cooking up somewhere in the house.

Just then, Lizzie appeared in the doorway, having brought Charlie down from his nap. The very moment the sleepy little boy set eyes on Claire, all of the Shelbys knew what was in store.

She didn’t even need to ask—the moment Charles saw his Auntie Claire, he all but leaped from Lizzie’s arms to Claire’s.

“Hello, my little sunshine!” Claire coos, and Charles beams a smile brighter than a thousand suns.

She dotes on the child, and is completely unaware of the men that had joined the parlor’s company. None other than the brother’s Shelby had re-appeared, looking quite smug with themselves—especially Tommy, who was wearing that grin, the one he wore when one of his plans was fully in motion.

Claire hadn’t even noticed as Polly slipped away, approaching her least favorite nephew. 

“You’ll be sorry.” She hums, taking her place next to him. 

“About what?” 

Polly grinned and tapped Tommy’s arm, “It’s not fair. You know she’ll hardly be able to defend herself from whatever it is you’re planning if she’s around the children.”

To which Thomas replied: “That’s the point, Pol.”

Charlie, of course, had no qualms about his situation; he just kept his little arms around Claire’s neck and the side of his face settled against her bosom, causing visible streaks of envy on the faces of every man in attendance. 

Mrs. Arthur Shelby was telling the Frenchwoman that she was nearing her wits end, because their son, Billy, still wouldn’t sleep through the night. And honestly, Claire had been listening. Intensely, to be frank. That is, until she heard that intrusive song again, the _step-step-clink _of a steel-bottomed cane against the marble floors. 

Near the entrance to the room, Mr. Solomons appears, already holding a glass of something clear—vodka or gin, she wonders, although he strikes her as a vodka sort of man. His cane, a long black stick with a five or so inch long cap of iron at the bottom, is in the grip of his jeweled hand.

“Sorry, Linda,” She hums, but doesn’t pull her eyes from Mr. Solomons. He hasn’t noticed her yet, so she takes the moment to take in his appearance. Tommy, who she hadn’t even seen come in, leaves his aunt’s side to greet him.

She runs her eyes over the top half of him—a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck under his jacket, displays an array of gold necklaces. His beard looks shorter than before, or perhaps just a bit more kept. He’s got a little frown on his lips, one that looks like it’d been there for years, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Suddenly, she realizes that those steel-blue orbs seem to be smiling at her. 

Polly pulls her out of her glare. “Claire, darling, you’re staring.”

“_Oui_.” She sighs, “Because your nephew brought a bear to a baby’s birthday party.”

“I’m sure it’s just business.” Linda offers.

Polly stifles a laugh, “When is it not business?”

She looks up again, she sees that the pair are crossing the parlor, approaching her and the other Shelby women. Something funny—something she couldn’t name, _dread? fear? excitement?_—settles heavily in her gut like a stone.

“Here, I’ll take Charlie.” Polly offers, but both the boy and Claire refuse.

“No.” Charlie says gently, snuggling into the neckline of Claire’s dress. Polly cocks an eyebrow at them.

“I think you heard him, Pol.” 

“Are you certain?” Linda offers as well, but Charlie threatens to cry, and Mrs. Shelby rescinds her offer. 

Claire leans forward and whispers to the boy, “Well, Charlie, your Daddy seems to be up to no good, isn’t he? Aunt Claire might have to _harm him_, should he try to _cross her_.” She coos, her voice slipping into Romani seamlessly to spare the baby’s ears from her threats. 

Polly’s laugh fades as she walks away, Linda in tow.

“Claire,” A husky voice—Tommy’s—pulls her to face them. 

Stood there, barely a few feet away, are Mr. Alfred Solomons and Mr. Thomas Shelby.Even in her heels, she was a good four or so inches shorter than them both. 

“Tommy.” She smiles, then directs her attention to Solomons, “Mr. Solomons.”

“Miss Laurent,” Alfie says sharply from his spot beside Tommy. Her name, said in such a gruff, grating voice, makes her a bit dizzy. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“A pleasure indeed.” She says, finally retrieving her gumption from wherever his smiling blue eyes had cast it off to. “All be it so soon.”

Tommy cracks a smile, quickly clearing his throat to cover it, “Well, I thought getting you in the same room would be more difficult.”

“Really?” She hums, smoothing a tuft of Charlie’s shining blond hair down. “Well, don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched. You haven’t told me what this is about.”

Alfie’s eyes settled on Claire. He should stop staring—he really should—but he doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to, which he _didn’t_. 

Her hair, as he had assumed when he’d first met her, was exceptionally long, reaching the base of her waist. She wore the front of it pinned up, but the long curls in the back were free to graze her back. 

But what caught his eye most thoroughly was the grip she had on Tommy’s boy. He was barely a few years old—clung to this woman like she was some sort of life force he needed to keep breathing. Charlie fists his little hands in the rushing of silks around Claire’s neck, and kept his face pressed against her chest, a small smile on his rosy lips. 

Alfie doesn’t think he’s ever envied an infant, but just then, it was overwhelmingly clear that he did.

It took him a moment to realize that the pair had stopped arguing, and were looking at him expectantly. 

“Mr. Shelby is quite the hospitable businessman, in’t he?” Alfie speaks calmly, “A party—drinks and dancing—as a reward for favorable negotiations.” And he’s grateful that the comment lands, because she goes right back to bickering with Tommy.

“As a front.” She corrects, her eyes flitting to Tommy, who folds his arms across his chest.

“I’ve gotten you good business with my fronts, though, haven’t I?” 

“I suppose so. The Russians are a regret, though.” She hums, watching Alfie tilt an eyebrow up. “Let’s hope today results in good business, then?”

“Yes,” Tommy nods, grateful she was receptive to any business at all. “Mr Solomons.”

“Well,” He huffs, raking his eyes over Claire and the babe once more, and realized he wasn't ready to see her set him down. “I don't mean to interrupt your little soirée here with the young Shelby.”

A little smile quirks up on the corner of her full lips, but she see ill fails to restrain it, as it erupts into a full toothy smile, “Isn’t he just the most precious thing you’ve ever set your eyes on?”

Tommy grins, “Miss Laurent is Charlie’s favorite aunt, could you tell?”

"Business can wait," Alfie hums, "Your boy should enjoy his party." 

And for a moment, he thinks he catches Claire giving him a look of interest, but almost immediately, it's swiped from her bright hazel eyes and back down to the little boy, babbling happily with his Aunt.

The evening progresses, and  Alfie absolutely loathes how good Claire looks toting around Shelby’s child behind him. He knows it’s because the boys bonded with her, and who would refuse him, now that his mum is gone? Still, it set a fire in his belly, seeing how well she meshed with this family, how well she partied with John and drank with Arthur; how she gazed up at Tommy with the sort of love that was oddly platonic, but still strangely intimate. Slowly, guests began leaving, saying their farewells and making their way to the front of the house. Tommy had taken Alfie and Claire to his office, and allowed Alfie to take the lead he so desperately wanted. 

“I have a proposition for you, Miss Laurent.” He says, through his whiskered lips. She gazes at him intently, one hand propped up on the arm of the chair, her head resting on her knuckles. She nods, and he continues. “A job of sorts, yes? Am I to understand that you specialize in retrieving things, by unconventional methods?”

She offers a hint of a smile “You would be right in that regard.”

“Then there is something I’d like retrieved.” He nods, and she nods along with him, waiting for the unreasonable bit. There was always an unreasonable bit with men like him. “It would be a rather simple job, ‘cept this fellow is a part of the gentry. Has men watch his house in the evenings well into the morning. I have it upon firm authority that the documents I seek, are in his home.”

“Right, Mr. Solomons, I find it not in the slightest bit difficult to steal from men who have protection of any form, as you should know from experience” She says, reaching forward and plucking the cigarette from Tommy’s fingers. She takes a drag and continues, “Why don’t you get into specifics, yes? I don’t need his name, just his address, and what it is I’ll be looking for,”

A slow smile creeps onto Alfie’s face, and for a moment, he’s starstruck. Nobody spoke to him that way. It made his pride tense up, but his gut feel warm. “Of course.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a document. Tommy hands her a pen. “Everything is outlined here. Including payment.”

“Mhm. Well, this sounds fun.” She hums, circling something near the top, “But that won’t do.” Then she flips it over, continuing her scribbles. “Neither will this.” 

Alfie peaks over the papers at her eyes, and sees she’s intently skimming the proposition. 

Once she’s done, she hands it back to him. “Just a few revisions: I won’t need your men, I work alone. I will not kill anyone within the home, as that’s not a part of our negotiation, yes?” She pauses, watching him nod before continuing, “If I am ‘interrupted’, as you suggest may be an occurrence, I assure you, no one will need to die. And lastly, your compensation is questionable. I’d like twice that.”

“Twice?” Alfie’s eyebrows go up, but not his voice. 

“Twice.” She nods. 

“What makes you believe that’s warranted?”

“You came to me, yes?” She frowns.

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat.

“Then I assume whoever it is you are stealing from is high profile. Too important a job to let your own men handle. I don’t ask questions, or need anymore information from you, other than where you’d like to meet to exchange these documents for my money.” 

“I see.”

“So, I need the numbers to reflect the importance of the theft. Does that still sound favorable to you, Mr. Solomons.” 

“I can do twice.” He narrows his eyes. 

“Good.” She smile, and spits in her hand, extending to him. He mirrors the action and takes her tiny palm into his. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Solomons.”

With a huff, she gets up onto her feet. Tommy pats his hand on her shoulder, “See? Not bad at all.”

“No, not at all, that one.” She says, cutting a glance at Alfie, still seated in his chair. He’s got his hands held together, each elbow propped up on an arm of the chair, his thumbs against his lips. His eyes settle on Claire again.

“I’ll have someone contact you with a rendezvous location.” He says. 

Her ears perk up at the French word, having her stall in the doorway. “Tommy be a dear and get his girl in touch with my girl?”

“Alfie has a _boy_, not a girl, Clairey,” Tommy tuts, the humor of her assumption not lost on either of them. 

“Either way, have someone speak to my Marcy. Now, might I enjoy a few moments uninterrupted with the children?”

Tommy grins, “Of course.”

She hums, and with a farewell glance, looks at Alfie. “_Au reviour, Monsieur_ Solomons."


	4. A Matter of Principle and Offense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire's break-in has a bit of an interruption, and Alfie manages to ruin a perfectly good conversation.

Chapter Three: _A Matter of Principle and Offense_

That following week, Claire did her due diligence to give this job the preparation and the attention she would give any other job. Alfie’s boy had indeed been in contact—not long after she returned home from Charlie’s party—and she’d immediately begun planning.

The night was set. She’d done the necessary reconnaissance, and had a plan of entry set up, and a get-away driver placatedwith an extra allowance to keep the night’s endeavors between the two of them. Just then, she was on her way to the home, having her driver park up the street. She was to meet Alfie at his bakery, and they’d make their trade off there.

The hit was a townhouse, much like the one she used to own a few streets south of here. The entire neighborhood smelled of the _nouveau riche, _fancy additions to the once-identical house fronts lined the street. London’s brand-new middle upper-class has finally begun their ascent into wealth. At least those with luck. 

Her driver had stopped exactly where she’d told him to, five houses up the street from the hit. This house was unlike the others, fewer if any additions had been made, and as of the last few times she’d passed by it, was uninhabited. Cloth over her fist facilitated the unlocking of the door from the inside, and just like that, she had completed the hardest bit of the night.

The house, empty and cold in the winter chill, reminded her of Thomas Shelby. It was definitely an odd time to think of the man, but pity covered her like a haze. The man carried a cloud of sorrow everywhere he went, didn’t he? It was why he kept such flagrant friends, such as herself and the boisterous Mr. Solomons. They kept him on his toes, or at least entertained him enough to prevent him from a sliding down that slippery slope many war-torn men found themselves on. 

In her silent musings, she had climbed the stairs to the attic, and slipped out the little round window onto the roof. It was cold, but thankfully the wind hadn’t picked up. Her mother always told her she was light on her feet, like a cat. Of course, her mother thought that trait would be valuable of a housewife, as not to wake sleeping babes or a tired husband. 

From shingling-tiled roof, she could see a good bit of the city. Rows upon rows of neat little houses had been built atop one another, so close together it was as if one of them were to be knocked over, the whole city would fall. 

From there, it was only a minute of walking over to the target house, where a skylight, as all the houses on the block seemed to have, would allow her into the home. She reaches her destination, a little glass box set in the roof, and with the gentlest of shimmying, it slides out of its socket. The woman had an obscene amount of upper-body strength, though her little arms didn’t give it away. With a hand on either side of the window, she lowers herself down. 

Of course, she lands on her feet, without the faintest sound. The skylight dropped her right in the hallway of the second floor. Alfie’s instructions claimed the documents he wanted were in the man’s study, which was the room facing the street. Sure enough, she pushes the door in, and inside sits a giant mahogany desk cluttered in paper. Not much of a study, she thinks, as she can’t imagine anyone getting any work done there.

She pilfers through the drawers and finds what Alfie wanted—it’s in a false bottom of the top drawer. Wanting to be certain, she steps towards the giant windows that opened out onto the street to better read the heading in the moonlight. _“Records of Acquisition.”_ it read, and she gently folds the packet over, and slips it into the waist of her pants. 

However, she stops dead in her tracks as her eyes settle on the man stood in the middle of the street, staring directly at her. She blinks twice, trying to make sense of it. It was Alfie, for sure—his cane and his rings and his beard were unmistakable. Anger surges through her, and from the look on his face, her anger amused him. 

Quietly, she slips the window open, and steps through it, one leg at a time. She lands on the little patch of grass outside, and quickly undoes the clips of her skirt to let the hem fall around her calves. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She whispers, stalking up to him. 

“How’d you get on his fuckin’ roof?” He asks, his voice not nearly quiet enough for the early morning air. 

“Stop yelling!” She whispers angrily.

He points at the house with his cane. “That’s three fuckin’ floors, woman! What if you had fuckin’ fallen?I’d be scooping yer guts off the goddamned sidewalk, Claire!”

She jumps up to her tiptoes, and presses her palm against his lips. His scruff chafes her palm, but she keeps it there, “You want to get us caught?” 

He shakes his head, and she feels the plush cushion of his lips against her palm, but doesn’t remove it.

“Then speak softly, you idiot!_ Pour l'amour de la baise!_” She hisses, wrapping her hand around his wrist and dragging him up the street. Her accent reappears with her anger, tilting her words with the most French of intonations. “What the fuck are you doing here, Alfie? You were supposed to meet me at the bakery!”

“I wanted to see how on earth you planned on getting in ‘at house.” He says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ve impressed me.” 

She stops dragging him—which she’d forgotten she was even doing because he was complying so sweetly—in front of the car parked on the street that hadn’t been there when she arrived. “I do not care.”

“Not at all?” He huffs, as if she’d offended him.

“Not a fuckin’ fig.” She stabs a finger at his chest then points down the street. “Now take yourself to your bakery, and count up my money. I’ll be in the car behind you.”

She spins to leave him in the cold morning fog, but his hand on her forearm stops her. She hadn’t expected it, not in the slightest, so her eyes settle on the giant hand holding onto her bicep. 

“What’s to stop me from just takin’ that there packet of papers in yer pants right now, Miss Laurent?” His eyes are dark, settling on his face. 

Her eyes dart between his face and his hand. She relaxes her body, not realizing that she had grown tense under his hands, and steps close to him. A shiver shakes her frame—be it from the cold or from his menacing glare, but she endures it, not wanting to waver under his eyes. Heat radiates from his body as she glares up at him, settling her eyes on his. 

Her voice is soft, not wanting to give up their position on the street, but sharp.“You’ve some nerve, _Monsieur _Solomons. Interrupting my work when I specifically asked you not to—work you yourself hired me to do—then threatening my money? Have you _no_ regard for your personal safety?” 

“I’m known risk myself now and again, darling” He hums, shifting his weight back, almost against the opened car door, but Claire takes another step closer, infringing completely on his space. 

She’s about to snap at him, before a light clicks on in the house they are stood in front of. Quietly, she points at the car door and motions for him to get in. He doesn’t, so she gestures more aggressively. 

“For fuck’s sake,” He murmurs, but gets in the car.

She, too, crawls in behind him, only to be met with the realization that this was not a full-cabbed car, but a sports car of some sort, with just one bench—an awfully tiny bench. 

“Now what?” He asks incredulously, and honestly, Claire didn’t have an answer.

The shadow of a man appears in the front window of the house, as the homeowner investigated the mysterious noises outside. At the tiniest shift of light, Claire had tugged Alfie down against her, and had slinked down in the seat, as well. 

She hadn’t realized that she’d unconsciously pressed her finger to Alfie’s lips, quieting him, until his uncharacteristic silence alarmed her. Looking down at her lap, a set of blue-green eyes gazed up at her. A hint of a smile glinted in them, but a more straightforwardone appeared on the soft, full lips beneath her fingers. 

“Hush,” She whispers, barely bobbing her head up enough to look up at the house again. The man was still there, holding the curtains back, peering down the street.“Fuckin’ hell, he’s still there.”

She feels the heft of a large hand sliding under her leg, up her thigh, nearing her ass, and gasps. “Alfred Solomons!” 

“Sh! If I fuckin’ fall it’ll be twice as loud as us whisperin’.” He whispers, and she realizes, too late, that it was the _back_ of his hand she’d felt, as his palm tried desperately to reach for any leverage on the seat that could better support his weight, and prevent him from either crushing her legs, or falling off of her lap. 

His hand found respite in a groove of the leather bench, just beside her hip. She shimmied against it, trying to give him space, but that only served to shift his balance too suddenly, causing him to reach forward with his other hand around her waist, anchoring them together. 

She gasped at the strange, slightly interesting but _entirely_ too arousing grasp he had on her. It felt odd to be held onto so desperately by a man Alfie’s size—as if it were a grasp itself created to be completely innocent for a child’s little hands, but when executed by a man, felt carnal and demanding. Demanding of what, Claire didn’t know, but her traitorous body was exceptionally willing to give it up to him. 

“Stop moving,” Alfie says through gritted teeth. His hat had been knocked to the floor when she pulled him down, and sat at her feet. Without it in place, his hair flopped over, and she could see the blood rushing to his head from being turned over for so long, turning his cheeks a rosy pink. “Fuckin’ hell, is he gone yet?”

Claire looked up in time to see the lights go off, but felt herself hesitant to tell him the truth. _Mon Dou, she needed to get laid._ “Yes, up with you.” 

He groans something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, and pulled himself up, off of her lap. The way his hand slips under her again makes her let out a bit of a whine, but she quickly clears her throat to cover it. 

Salvaging what was left of her dignity, she grumbles, “Tommy should have told me you’d follow after me.” 

“Y’think Tommy knows me well enough to know I’d surveil you?” 

“I think Tommy knows you better than you think,” She says, swiping a loose lock of hair over her ear. “It’d serve you well to listen to him—especially when it comes to affaires with me, Mr. Solomons. Tommy is a good friend, and I took your business with respect for your business relationship.”

“When he wants to be, I suppose.” He grumbles, and she realizes that must have been in regard to Tommy being a good friend. “In ’at case, let’s go get you yer money, Miss Laurent.”

She hums. Part of her wants to believe it was her little threat that had changed his mind, but the half of a grin on the man’s lips told her he’d made that decision on his own—with intentions behind it that she was completely clueless to. She returned to her car with a little huff, and instructed her driver to follow the the car that Solomons was driving.

Claire wishes then that she could read minds. She was more fond of the fairer sex at times like this, as she found women easier to understand. 

Women spoke freely with other women—cattily sometimes, but not ever with her. Men, however, were either completely intimidated by her, or thought themselves completely above her. She’d learned to handle both archetypes—but Mr. Solomons was clearly seeking to create his own. He was not intimidated by her, as he’d been bold enough to suggest crossing her, even in jest; but he’s hadn’t completely dismissed her, either. 

Before she knew it, they were in Camden Town, outside of the bakery. She slipped off her slippers, replacing them with her heels, and snatched her briefcase and shawl, before her driver clicked the door open for her. 

Mr. Solomons waited in the lamplight most gentlemanly for her, and produced a giant ring of keys to open the heavy wooden door. Where it would have taken most of her strength to get the thing open, it swung open effortlessly under his strength.

“Mind your step,” He warned in a gruff voice, and steps aside for her to enter.

Stepping through the doorway, she was hit with the strong smells she should have expected from a bakery, but hadn’t. First, she smelled the distinct scent of yeast blooming as breads and pastries proved. Then the luscious smell of those breads as they’d begun baking. 

There was little light near the entryway, but as she followed Solomons further in, she she could see that there were indeed men at work, with beige aprons across their thighs and sweat on their brows. It had to be nearing five in the morning—why hadn’t she thought there’d be men at work in his bakery? 

Well, most obviously, it was because Mr. Shelby had dropped the bug in her ear that the bakery was a front for other less-than-legal jobs. She knew Mr. Solomons’ wealth came from two main areas: the sorts of protection rackets the Shelbys also ran, only here in Camden Town, and a rum distillery, of which he covered the production and sale with this here bakery. But she knew from the very moment she met him, he was more than that—there was something more, something that he wanted that he thought she could get him. 

“Morning sir,” A younger man appears in front of them, and upon seeing you, nods and changes his greeting, “Should I bring tea to your office, sir?” 

“Y’ drink tea, Miss Laurent?” Alfie looks over his shoulder at her.

“Thank you,” She says politely, more for the young man’s sake than for Alfie’s, and smiles, “but I shouldn’t be staying that long. Isn’t that right, Mr. Solomons?”

He huffs, “Bring us tea, Ollie.” 

Ollie disappears to complete his order, but Alfie just continues to his office. She follows, watching him settle behind his desk with the various grunts and little sounds she learned are common from him.

“I suppose you’ve earned this, yeah?” He grumbles, not angrily, just as it seems he does between words. 

“I believe I have.” Claire clears her throat, producing the documents she’d, as he’d called it, _retrieved_.

He pulls stacks of notes from his desk drawer, as they were just _sitting_ there. The thought of a man like Alfie being so confident in his security here, especially when she’d broken into his house while he slept inside,makes her smile. 

He notices her smile, and tuts, “The love of money is the root of all evil, y’know that, Miss Laurent?” He hums, sliding the stacks across his desk to her. 

She settles her eyes on his face, a ghost of a smile sits on his lips. Without removing her eyes from his, she clicks her briefcase open. “I thought you were an old testament man?” She offers a smile, which he returns. 

He sits back in his chair and links his fingers on his lap, “Lookin’ into me, were you?”

She begins filing the notes away in her case, “Doesn’t take much looking to learn that about you, Mr. Solomons. Seems as though everyone who knows your name knows that.” 

As a matter of fact, for quite sometime, it was the only thing she’d known about the illusive Mr. Alfred Solomons. A few weeks after it had happened, Tommy’d told Claire about his meeting with Mr. Solomons. It’d been their first meeting—when Tommy had first offered Alfie his services. When she’d heard Tommy’s tale about a rum-making, horse-racing, megalomaniac gangster, she hoped that she would never have the misfortune of crossing paths with him. 

She remembers Tommy’s description of Solomons, a great, large man, with a set of shoulders that suggested he boxed, who wore more gold than than he had room on his skin for. A man with ink poking out from under his collar, with a tongue that was quick but only ever yelled, threatened or was ill-mannered. Never had she ever thought she’d end up sat across from him; and _never_ had she thought she would _enjoy_ being sat across from him. 

“Mhm.” He hums, “And yourself? You are new testament, in’t you?” 

“I’m indifferent.” She replies, and clicks her briefcase shut. With a swift slip of her hand, the packet of papers lands on the desk in front of him. “Do look over the materials, to be certain I’ve delivered what it is you sought.”

“Will it matter?” He asks gently.

“Sorry?”

“You’ve gotten your money already. What does it matter if you delivered what I sought?” He says, hit smile reappearing in full earnest now. She arches an eyebrow at him, so he continues. “Well, you see, fortunately for me,I didn’t _really_ need them there papers.” He juts his chin out at the packet on his desk, “What I wanted was to see if you were truly as good as Tommy raves that you are.” 

She grins. “So I broke into that poor man’s house for no reason?” 

“No, not no reason.” He huffs, taking the packet anyway. “Quite the method you used tonight, Claire—if I may call you Claire.”

“May I call you Alfie?” She asks. He nods, so she continues,“Yes, Claire, then.” 

“It’s quite the little dance you’ve got, flinging yourself up and onto buildings.” He pouts. “I was hoping you could tell me where you learned that?”

“And you want to know because?” She crosses her legs. 

He was getting at something, she thought to herself. It was dizzying, just how much she was having to censor herself for fear she may reveal what it is he was looking for, without even realizing she’d done it. 

He frowns at her, so she softens her words, “Are you fixing to throw yourself onto any buildings anytime soon, Alfie?” 

“Well, I’m interested o’course.” He shrugs, “Can a man not be interested in his business partner’s methods?”

“Oh, are we partners now?” She asks, partially serious.

“Yes, of course,” He furrows his brows, but is cut off by Ollie returning with his tray of morning tea. 

“Right, sir,” Ollie says, setting the tray down in the middle of his desk. He glances over at Claire with a little smile, “Milk, miss?” 

“_Oui_. Just a bit, thank you.” Claire says, settling her eyes on Alfie, whose smile makes her face feel hot. 

Ollie’s hands are quick to fix the tea and hand it to her on a little saucer. He excuses himself just as swiftly as he’d arrived. She takes a sip, and it hits her empty stomach with a hot splash. 

“About that jumpin’ around London, love? An’ how’d you get yourself through that little window?” He prompts, curiosity bright in his eyes.

“I’m French, darling, we’re bendy.” She says, and it gains a deep roar of laughter from the baker. She shrugs, “I’m small—I fit through a lot of little places. Makes what I do easier.”

“And what exactly is it that you do, Claire?” 

“This and—”

“‘This and that’, yeah, I remember.” He grumbles with a roll of his eyes, “Look, love. You’re good with the Shelbys, then you’re good with me. You’ve got nothing to worry about coming from me.”

“Legitimately, I ferment wine in the French countryside. Namely, vermouth.” She sets the teacup down onto her lap. 

“And illegitimately?” He presses.

She simmers with the question for a second, but decides to divulge just a little to ward him off. “A little of what I did for you tonight. I also work in appraisal—artwork and jewels.” 

His eyes seem to sparkle with interest. Claire wonders for a moment just how it were possible—a man his size looking that child-like.

“It’s few women doing things as well are you are in this city, Claire.” He huffs, turning his teacup around on it’s saucer idly, “None of which I know to be doing it alone, without the protection of a man.” 

“Men have proven themselves to be useless to me in matters of stealth.” She cuts back.

And it lands—he almost winces at the realization he’d offended her. “I meant in _name_, Claire. Women tend to form alliances with one gang or another—find themselves a racket of protection. Gives them status and men whenever they need them.” 

“I see.” 

“I had supposed that’s where Tommy came in—but then he came to me, saying he thought you needed friends here in London as well.”

“There are things Tommy doesn’t know. I’ve plenty of friends here in London.”

“Posh London friends.” Alfie corrects. “You’ve got _elite_ friends. Friends with money and status—not dirty friends with protection rackets and disposable men.”

“Well, I hardly have any need for soldiers—I’m not going around starting any wars, am I?”

"I suppose not." He shrugs as well, taking a sip of his own tea. "I would offer you sweets, but I'm afraid we're a bit early for those."

She arches an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'll have to come back again." She brings the teacup to her lips, "To try your sweets."

A hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips. "You're very welcome to, should you find yourself on my side of London again soon." 

"I suppose we'll see."

Alfie, as bold as he proved to be, continues, “Tommy said you’ve killed for him before.” He pauses, watching her face change,“You find yourself doin’ a lot of that?”

She clears her throat, and sets her teacup back onto the tray. French came to her tongue before her brain could piece together English, “_The nerve of you—_I don’t see how that’s any of your concern, Mr Solomons.” 

“I’ve offended you,” He says as if he’s confused by it. 

“You have.” She replaces her fur onto her shoulders and slips the handle of the briefcase into her palm. “Thank you for the tea.” And upon rising to her feet,“And the money.”

“Claire,” His voice is apologetic, but she’d already left his office.

She remembered the way she came, although there were many more men at work now, and their eyes settled on her as she crossed them. A wolf whistle comes from the host of them, followed by deep laughs, and almost immediately, a loud banging sound startles her. 

She glances back towards Alfie’s office, where he was standing beside a support beam, holding a large bread pan in his hand, having just slapped it against the wooden beam. 

“Enough of ‘at, the lot of you fuckin’ dogs.” He yells over the bakers, “Can’t you see ‘at is a lady? Get back to fuckin’ work, all of you.” 

More curses come from the boss, but she doesn’t stick around to hear them all. She walks out into the early morning light, with the sun haven risen in the east. Her driver opens the car door for her once more, and asks, “Back to Warwickshire, miss?”

She slips the tie out of her hair, allowing the curls to tumble down her back. “Back to fuckin’ Warwickshire, Donny.” 


	5. Of Fickle Women and Ignorant Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie set up their coup, and Claire sulks about her estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a short update here, but I wanted to keep it fairly small since it's so dialogue heavy. xx

Chapter Four: _Of Fickle Women and Ignorant Men_

Tommy Shelby found himself in Camden Town, because Mr. Solomons hadn’t returned his request for a meeting in Birmingham. He hated the drive to London, but it would be worth it to settle whatever it was he’d done to piss off Solomons.

It was a lot like Small Heath, he thought, as he always did upon arriving. Camden town smelled a lot like Small Heath, at least until he stepped foot in Solomon’s bakery. He’d never admit it, but he really enjoyed the scents that filled the place. Various breads and sweets being baked pleased his nose, and as he made his way further into the building, the spices of Alfie’s rum makes his mouth water.

Alfie, however, was in a much more bitter mood. Although he too enjoyed the smells of the bakery, he was too preoccupied just then to enjoy them. He was in the thick of expense reports when Ollie’d sent Mr. Shelby in. “Ello Tom, wouldn’t be you paying me a visit if you weren’t interrupting something, would it?”

“Alfie,” Tom nods as a greeting, and sits when Alfie prompts him to. “Busy, are you?”

“Yeah mate. Right fuckin’ busy, and not even with real business.” He lifts a packet of papers with an annoyed face, “Busy with the fake business that covers for the real business. I gotta get me a fuckin’ secretary or something.”

“Been busy all week, then?” Tommy asks, not completely ignoring Alfie’s little rant. He knew how time consuming covers became. It made him just a twinge more grateful for Michael. “I’ve been calling since Sunday.”

“Right well, I’m a little peeved at you, as well.” Alfie admits, taking his spectacles from his nose, and allowing them to rest against his chest.

Tommy raises his eyebrows, “What have I done now?”

“I think you went and set me up to fail, yeah?” Alfie points at him with his pen. “Y’didn’t want me doing business with Ms. Laurent in’a first place, did you?”

“It’s like I told you then, you shouldn’t have moved in on her so quickly. You probably spooked her.” Tommy shrugs, “What’d you do? Offer her one of your little propositions? She’d not a whore, Alfie, not a thing for you to want.”

“No, mate, no propositions.” He balks, a bit offended that Tommy thought so little of him. “All I did, yeah, was ask a little question regarding what _you_ had told me about her.”

Tommy frowns, “And what happened?”

“She up and left me office,” He announces, his voice tilting up, “And now why would she go and do that, unless I’d said something to offend her?”

Tommy felt as though he was back in a schoolyard, being forced to mediate between friends like this. “I dunno, Alfie. What exactly did you say to her?”

“Well, I just asked her if she makes killing her business.” Alfie waves his hand, like it were no big deal. And Tommy, well, Tommy almost choked.

“Why the hell would you ask her that?” Tommy says, a chuckle unable to stay down.

“Why wouldn’t I? I’s just making conversation, is all!” Alfie says with a huff, “Fuckin’ hell, these women these days.” He grumbles, then, feeling quite naive for exposing himself like that, “And what was it you wanted, anyways? Coming all the way out here to bother me.”

“Time’s come for you to make good of your half of our arrangement.” Tommy announces, lighting himself a cigarette, even though he knows Alfie hates when he smokes them here. He didn’t care—he’d suffered through what felt like a lifetime of hearing him talk about Claire now—he was entitled to a fucking cigarette.

“That was fast.” Alfie grumbles. “Remind me not to take anything from you again. You collect on your promises too quickly.”

“This expansion will be good for business, Alfie.”

“Right, yeah, good for business.” He jeered, “What exactly is it you’ll have me doing in your little plan, Tom? Out with it.”

“Sabini has killed three more of my men in the last month.” Tommy says, then waves his hand a bit dismissively, “Hired hands, soldiers—but if we can’t protect the men, they’ll stop coming to us when we need them.”

“Right,” Alfie scratches at his jaw, “Well I’ve got no proof of it, but two of my boys got the lights fuckin' beaten out of them here in London last week. ‘Said it was some wops ‘at did it to ‘em.”

Tommy takes a deep drag and sends his brows up, “We knew this would happen. You take your foot off his neck and look, ‘e thinks he’s the cock of the walk. We need to do something about it.”

“Are you just for talking about it, or do you have a plan to share with me?”

The smoke comes out through his nose quickly, efficiently, and he nods, “I’ve got a plan. We need a sit-down meeting, two of us and him.”

“Yeah, because talking goes over so well with Sabini’s lot.”

“No.” Tommy says, his eyes deathly serious now. “I’m proposing we come together, you and I, present a united front, and take him out of the game indefinitely.”

Alfie groans, “No, Tom.” He scoffs, “Y’ave any idea what kinda bind that puts me in? The Italians have got the neck of the cut I need to get my boats in ‘an out of here. We fuck with them and kill Sabini and another one of them’ll step up. And then what?”

“That’s the thing,” Tommy leans forward, his voice dark and even.

He was gearing up to give Alfie the pitch of the century—the way he did before convincing anybody to follow him. His voice dips down to a whisper, but doesn’t lose it’s bite.

“They won’t see it coming. Last they heard of you and I workin’ together, you wanted me dead, and I, you. It’ll happen quickly—overnight. With Darby and his right hand out of the way, they’ll scramble to find someone to take his place. By the time they do, we’ll have taken the clubs, the factories, all of it. Every bit of London they control, we’ll seize.”

Alfie pauses, taking a moment to nitpick the plan. It’s what he’s best at, finding holes in Mr. Shelby’s little plans, but he was blank at this one. It made perfect sense, solong as they moved quickly. News spread fast, and it was merely a matter of time that it begun circulating that the two of them were back in each other’s good graces.

“You’ve outdone yourself.” Alfie marvels, giving him a little half smile. “Brilliant plan, Tom, as always.”

“Have we got a deal, then? You and I arrange the killing of Mr. Sabini and his second, and then evenly split his conquests that very evening?”

Alfie nods, spits in his hand, and offers it. Tommy mirrors the action, and once the shake was over, he sits back in the seat. “Well then, you’ve gotta go apologize to Claire, y’know. Only way outta that bind.”

“She say anything to you?” Alfie perks up.

“No.” He huffs, “Doesn’t talk to me about her own business, she’s a private person. All we talk seem to talk about is Charlie.”

Alfie does his best to hide how content that little tidbit made him. “That bother you, Tom?”

He shrugs, “Not exactly. I’m glad Charlie’s got someone he can trust outside of the family.”

“I didn’t ask about how it makes Charlie feel, I asked if it bothered _you_.” Alfie clarifies, and silence covers the two of them for a moment.

Tommy licks his lip an inhales sharply. “We won’t meet again until it’s time, people notice those sorts of things. I’ll set it up, n’ have John give you a place and a date.”

Alfie doesn’t get the chance to reply, because within seconds, Tommy’s dress shoes were clicking their way out of the bakery.

* * *

Without fail, for three days after her meeting with him, Claire awoke in the mornings flustered and frustrated, having dreamt of Mr. Alfie Solomons.

And every morning, she dismissed the spicy dreams as her overactive imagination, running rampant and erecting fantasies of the first man she’d found attractive in quite some time. It made her angry, but it was only a slow simmering level of anger. It made her angry in the same way slow drivers or tepid tea did. Enough to evoke a grimace, but not enough to act out.

The repetition of these dreams, however, was proving to be a lot. This particular morning, the fourth of the Solomons Saga, as she’d begun calling it, she’d woken up with the thought of Alfie’s ringed fingers doing obscene things to her. She hadn’t been angry when she’d initially risen—quite the opposite, really—but she’d grown angry at the realization she wasn’t safe from his steely glare, even in her own bed.

So she dressed herself—and ‘dressed’ was a subjective term for Claire Laurent—and took herself to breakfast.

Marcelle, as well, took her time getting decent in the mornings—it was not uncommon for either of them to show up to the grand dining room in just their dressing gowns. Most of the kitchen and dining staff was female, anyhow; but they didn’t shirk away from the eyes of the male servants, either.

“_Marcelle, my love, he’s plagued my sleep again.” _Claire exclaims, entering the dining room in just her red silk robe.

“_Good Morning, Claire._” Marcelle grins, watching interestedly as Claire sat at the head of the eight seated table. “_I’ve told you how to stop the dreams, mon amor._”

Claire huffs, swiping her curls over her shoulder. “_I will not sleep with him, Marcy.”_

Marcelle shrugs, stabbing at a strawberry with her fork, and replacing her attention to the paper she’d been reading. “_Once is probably all it would take, darling. You’d get a good lay, and get him out of your system.”_

Claire rolls her eyes as Dorothy appears setting coffee down in front of her. “Dorothy, you absolute angel.” She places a kiss on the older woman’s cheek. “Just this, yes? I’ll have lunch with Mr. Shelby soon.”

“Yes, miss.” Dorothy offers a little smile and disappears towards the kitchen.

“Mr. Shelby?” Marcelle inquires, but doesn’t look up from her papers. “He’s not in the diary for today.”

“No,_ we’ll be going to see him._” Claire answers after a sip of her coffee.

“We?” Marcelle arches an eyebrow.

“Yes, you’ll come too.” Claire pouts. “You must. Or else I might find myself tempted to stop in Camden Town on the way back.”

Marcelle hums, turning the pages over, “_If you presumed I’d be stopping you, you’re wrong.”_


	6. To Cross a Frenchwoman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coup's first attempt is a bust, and Tommy manages to alienate Claire in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> TW: This chapter contains a bit of gore, specifically descriptions of physical violence, and mentions of blood. If that bothers, you, do not read this week's chapter. I'll change the fic's rating to Explicit, as well. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! xx

Chapter Five: _To Cross a Frenchwoman_

The meeting was set, and Alfie had readied himself for things to go to shit rather quickly.

It’s not that he didn’t have full confidence in Tommy’s plan, it just seemed that whenever it came to he and those Shelbys working together, things went up in flames very, very quickly. That morning as he dressed, he slipped his set of brass knuckles onto his thick fingers, opening and closing his fist, and hoped he wouldn’t need to use them.

The meeting would happen at the opera house. Alfie’d rolled his eyes at the thought of it, but it was the only Shelby property in the city that would be safe enough a place to offer up for a meeting. He hated this part of the city, it smelled fresher and more dainty than Camden Town. It was the sort of place Shelby brought his wife to see shows, the sort of place Claire Laurent watched the opera, and that made him on edge. He stuck out like a sore thumb; but he kept his head down and walked into the opera house. 

Upon entering, the setting was as it had been the last time he was there. 

They met where floor of the performance stage had been deconstructed, leaving a faded half-circle on the cement orchestra pit. A small table had been set there, with two chairs neatly pushed in on one side, and another set across from it. The two eldest Shelby brothers were present, but to Alfie’s surprise, there were also two women there. One of which he was all too familiar with. 

Claire faced away from him in an ankle length silk gown, her hair twirled and pinned back in a low chignon. Alfie cursed under his breath—this would not bode well for him. Tommy had told him to call and apologize—_begged_ him to call and apologize to Claire—and he hadn’t. She turns at the sound of him entering the giant empty space, and smiles at him. It was a pleasant, unthreatening smile, but it made him weary in the most visceral of ways. 

“Alfie,” Tommy greets, flicking his cigarette bud onto the floor, and stepping on it. “Glad you could find the time to join us.”

“Oh,” Alfie groans, checking his fob, “Five minutes, Tom? Just five.”

A rapid bout of French comes from a feminine voice, and it wasn’t Claire’s, so his eyes flit to the other woman. She was taller than Claire by a few inches, and dressed just as nicely in a dark, emerald green, form-fitting dress. Her body was less curved than Claire’s, but she wasn’t masculine, just less delicate than Claire was. Her hair is a bright brown, bits of it lighter than the rest, and she has a set of steel-blue eyes. She looked like a gypsy, with her hoop earrings and gold fixings, but her straight nose and soft features, paired with her most French accent, makes him realize she’s probably Claire’s kin.

“No, darling.” Claire offers her gently, then returns her soft gaze to Alfie, “_Monsieur Solomons_.”

He takes a breath, grappling with how well _monsieur_ precedes his name in her voice. “Ms. Laurent. I go a lifetime never seeing your face once, and now I’ve the pleasure of seeing it twice in one week.” 

“I do hope my face doesn’t offend,” She doesn’t hide her smile, pairing it with a raised eyebrow, “I’m afraidit seems you’ll be seeing it frequently from here on out.” 

It was Alfie’s turn for his eyebrows to go up. He redirects his glare to Tom, who frowns. “Ms. Laurent has been brought into our negotiations with the Italians.” 

He glances at her, but his eyes fight to stay focused on her face, and not on her chest, which she was currently pushing up with her folded arms. He finds himself failing the endeavor, so he snaps back to Tommy. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing.” Tommy shrugs. “Claire’s cut comes out of mine. She’s a contractor of sorts here.”

“Contractor? Contracted to do what?” Alfie furrows his brows. 

“You need the man gone, yeah?” She snaps, her eyes not meeting his. “I’ll get rid of him.” 

Everything clicks into place pretty quickly. Contrary to evidently popular belief, he was not slow to things. She’s been offended by his question before, so he keeps his reservations to himself. 

He could only wonder, though, so he purses his lips and asks, “In a _dress_?”

A smile creeps onto her lips, and she looks down at her feet, not having expected that from him.

Tom croaks, “Alfie,” 

He offers a little laugh, “I’m not complaining, Tom. Lady says she’ll get it done, I ‘ave no doubt she’l get it done.” 

“Good.” Tommy nods, looking eternally grateful that things hadn’t gone to shit even before the Italians showed. Alfie knew Tom thought him to be unpredictable; it made him want to laugh, just how off-guard his complacency caught Tommy. “Right. Well. He should be here soon.”

Alfie took a minute to look at the man. He’d like to think at this juncture of their relationship, after they’d lied and conned and almost killed each other at least a dozen times, that he could get a read on Tommy Shelby. 

Tommy turned into a much denser version of himself before meetings like this one. What depths he allowed the people close to him to see were quickly sealed up and locked away. His face grows stern and his brow lowers, and Alfie realizes for the first time that Tommy’s entire austere look is all a hoax. A play he put on to make the people around him quiver in fear. 

But at this point, he’d seen Tommy weep over his dead wife, his missing son, and his family separating. He was human in Alfie’s eyes, not the machine most people saw him as. 

It put a little smile on his face, and in response to it, Tommy points a finger at him, “None of that._ Hey!_ None of that _look_ of yours! This goes by the book.”

“By the book.” Alfie nods, but can’t exactly help himself from adding on, “Whose book?” Then pursing his lips and pointing at Claire, “Your book?” 

“_Oui_,_” _She smiles, and Alfie offers a little ‘Oh’ just as the doors open. 

Two men walk in—waltz really, for how slow and unnatural their gaits seemed— and upon the realization that neither of them were Darby Sabini, Tommy’s spine straightens. 

“What’s this?” Tommy grunts, shoving his hands in his pockets.

The larger one of the two men speaks, Italian cadence lacing through his words, “Good evening, Mister Shelby.” 

“Who the fuck ar’ you?” Arthur supplies the phrase his brother had really wanted to say.

“Marconi Changretta.” He says, with an open palm against his gut, then extending it to his counterpart, “Giovanni Spinietta. We’re here on behalf of Mr. Sabini, to see just what it is you gentleman seek.” 

Tommy’s jaw flexes in annoyance, the disrespect not lost on him. Sabini called his bluff, and just like that, the bottom of his entire plan had fallen out. Now Sabini would know the Shelbys were on good terms—or at least found him to be a common enemy—with Mr. Solomons, and would keep his distance. Tom, Alfie, and Claire all came to that exact conclusion around the same moment, and they share a weary glance.

“Alright then,” Tom huffs, settling down at the little table, and gestures at the two chairs in front of him. The pair settle down, and the creaks of the chairs are the only sounds in the empty opera house.

“I’ll be blunt.” Tommy nods, “I don’t too much appreciate your men going around killing mine.” 

“I see.” Marconi nods, leaning forward, pressing his elbows into the table, “These men, yes? They’re just soldiers.”

“My soldiers.” Tommy supplies, a curt glare cutting Marconi down to size a bit. “I can choose to believe that it’s just been boys being boys. Boys tussling in bars and whisky and bruised egos causing things to escalate too quickly. Or, I can choose to believe that Mr. Sabini’s having my men picked off for a reason.”

Marconi sits back in his chair, “Now, Mr. Shelby—”

“Either one of those has the same result, gentlemen.” Tom huffs, pointing his cigarette at them. “A breach in an agreement that I,” he points behind him vaguely, “Mr. Solomons here, and your boss erected months ago.” 

Alfie realizes—he’d noticed it, but it hadn’t been prominent enough to act on—that Marconi wasn’t staring at Tommy. His eyes are narrowed over Tommy’s shoulder, at Claire, in mild recognition. When he glances over at Claire, her eyes are narrowed as well—but in a wordless threat—at Marconi. His heart almost stops—was it possible?

Marconi Changretta’s eyes don’t leave Claire’s when he says, “I’m beginning to think that you hardly had intentions of _speaking_ to my boss, Mr. Shelby.” 

Tommy takes a long drag of his cigarette. It’s quiet for a moment, and Alfie wonders if Tommy was thinking what he was thinking. Wearily, Tom asks, “What makes you say that, Mr. Changretta?”

He points an extremely jeweled finger at Claire and tuts, “That little snake y’got there.” 

Claire scoffs, and watches him lean forward, pressing his elbows into the tabletop. 

“Watch yourself.” Tommy snaps. “Mind how you speak to her, ey? I’m not responsible for how she reacts.” 

“She’s a _snake,” _The last bit of Italian bites, and Claire’s temper flares, “Mr. Sabini will be interested to know you’ve taken up more friends in London. Y’planning on stealing from them, too?”

Tommy turns in his chair to face Claire, and Alfie is genuinely afraid of the look in Tommy’s eyes. You didn’t cross Thomas Shelby—it was a well-known fact, one Alfie assumed Claire knew, since the pair seemed to know each other fairly well. Claire didn’t look intimidated by Tommy’s glare, which scared Alfie even more.

Tommy’s voice dips down low, as he stares at the floor, his anger preventing him from looking her in the eyes, for fear he might attack. Romani slips out effortlessly, “_I’ll ask once. Do you know these men?_”

Claire’s eyes snap to Tommy’s face, and she replies immediately in English, her voice harsh and angry, “Clearly, I do.” 

Tommy’s hand slaps the tabletop quickly, causing everyone except Claire to flinch. He’s on his feet immediately, stomping over to her. Arthur and Alfie both make to stop him, but she steps _forward_, towards him. Her hand reels back and slaps his clean across the cheek, and he stands there, confused at sudden sting. 

“Get yourself together.” Her voice is even, calm. Marcelle, beside her, produces a little switchblade from her pocket, but doesn’t lift it. “You want to do this now? In front of these men? In front of Mr. Solomons?”

“You put this entire operation in jeopardy when you failed to disclose that you were working with Sabini.” Tommy shouts. “How the fuck am I supposed to trust you, now, Claire?” 

“When have I ever given you reason to doubt me?” She asks, narrowing her eyes down to slits. She points a manicured finger at him, and he takes a step back, but she steps forwards, keeping them the same distance apart, “What about the rapport we’ve built? Years, I’ve worked with you, and you let two second-class wops change that?”

“You should have—”

“_Shut up_!” She shouts. “I did not disclose my working relationship with Mr. Sabini because there isn’t one. I’ve conned him out of a couple thousand pounds. That is all.”

Alfie grunts, feeling remorseful now for having doubted her. Tommy, however, must be feeling even worse. He’d snapped at her in anger, and thoroughly embarrassed her in front of Solomons. His voice is soft now, “Claire, I—”

“You should have known better than to do dealings with women, Mr. Shelby.” Marconi hums, “Liars and whores, the lot of them.”

“_Oh for fuck’s sake_,” The French escapes her in an annoyed breath, and Alfie doesn’t even see her move, but in an instant she’s at the table. “Do you not enjoy your little _bourgeoisie_ life, Mr. Changretta? Because your careless mouth makes it seem as though you don’t.”

He reaches his hand out towards her—whether it’s to hit her or not, Alfie doesn’t know. He lunges forward, purely on instinct, but Tommy’s firm hand on his chest holds him in place. Claire was more than capable of handling this herself, and within the blink of an eye, she’d snatched out a knife she’d concealed against her thigh, and had stabbed right through his hand, lodging his palm and the knife in the tabletop.

He wailed, and hurried curses spewed from his lips as if he were praying, but she didn’t even flinch. No, her eyes were calm, her face just as soft as it had been, and it makes Alfie equal parts frightened and aroused. 

Alfie exhales loudly, the force of colliding with Tommy’s hand hitting him, but he realizes that neither Tom, Marcelle, nor Arthur had moved an inch. Instinct had propelled him forward, but evidently, the Shelby brothers knew Claire well-enough, to know that an angry Italian reaching out to harm her wasn’t a threat in the slightest. 

The other man’s eyes are bugging out of his head. He darts to his feet, but stays at the table, a hand on his cohort’s shoulder as he fumbles over the words, exposing to the group why he’d been silent the entire time—the fucker didn’t seem to speak English. _“Mi dispiace, signorina,”_

“Me too,” she hums, not looking up at him.

After a little bit of silence, unfilled with anything besides the first man’s struggle against the knife, she snatches it up. Marconi shoots to his feet, holding his gushing hand, and wailing. She’s unperturbed, and wipes the blade against the top of her chest. The crimson liquid smears across her pale skin, and the second man’s eyes, though still full of fear, land on her cleavage. 

Again, in the briefest of seconds—if you were to have _blinked_, you would have missed it—she reaches up and slits Marconi’s throat.

Blood, thick and volatile, drenches her top half, and his chokes fill the large space. She pushes her chair back in just enough time for him to slump forward on the table. 

Spinietta shudders, and she smiles at him. To Alfie, it felt like an eternity was ticking along, the only sound that of the newly-deceased man’s blood dripping off of the table onto the hard cement floors. After a moment, she speaks, her smile still there. 

“Right then, _tesoro,”_ She runs a finger down Spinietta’s jaw, spreading his dead friend’s blood onto his cheek, which makes him flinch, “_You run off and tell Sabini that rosa nera says next time he’ll send me good men, respectful men. That is, if he wants negotiations Mr. Shelby and Mr. Solomons here to continue." _Her voice clicks into English, for the sake of the other men. "In the interest of maintaining business relations with all three of you gentlemen, I will withdraw my services from all of you, until an agreement is made. Should he refuse, he can assume my loyalty will not lie with him.” 

A single pat on his cheek, and he’d darted out of the room. She stands, and with an unceremonious flick of her hand, she sent the blood on her fingers to the floor with an exceptionally nasty _flip!_ sound. Bending over slightly at the hips, she reaches into Marconi’s back pocket, retrieving his wallet. Flipping it open, she takes the fold of bills out, and drops the empty leather onto his back. Hoisting her leg up onto the chair, she tucks the bills under her garter, and returns her knife there as well.

“Really, Claire?” Tommy scoffs, rubbing his face with a tired movement of his hand.

She shrugs, and her voice is stiff with him, “I’m a thief, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t mean that—“ He says, but stops when his eyes settle on her form. 

She looks up, waiting for the end of his sentence, but watches instead as Tommy’s eyes fix on the ceiling as he sighs. Arthur, as well, seemed to be looking at the ceiling. She almost follows their eyes before she realized that Marcelle and Mr. Solomons, cheeky fuckers, weren’t looking at the rafters, but rather were looking at the bosom of her dress, which had been almost soaked by that poor man’s blood. It had been pretty thin silk to begin with, so now the deep blue material clung to her body like there wasn’t any fabric there—her breasts were completely outlined, down to the little nubs of her nipples. 

“Oh, fucking hell,” She curses, crossing her arm in front of her bosom to cover them, then, when realizing Alfie was still staring, barks, “Oi! _Monsieur_! Eyes up here!” 

Tommy and Arthur both snaps their eyes at him with threatening glances, and dare she say it—the big bad Alfie Solomons seemed to be blushing under that beard. He offers a soft smile, and shrugs out of his coat. “S-sorry, love.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, and drops her hand, her chest following the motion, as if daring him to take another glance at her, if he were to be so brave. He wouldn’t, but a boyish grin does take over his lips, as he takes a step forward, offering the coat up for her. She takes a few long steps over to him, turning her back to him so he could slide the coat up her arms. 

The heat of his body made her feel fuzzy in places it shouldn’t. Alfie, however, indulged himself with just one glance over her shoulder and down the neckline of the dress, even if she were freckled with another man’s blood. 

Tommy’s voice interrupts the warmth that had begun to envelope them. “This is a right mess—y’didn’t think this was something you needed to disclose to us?”

“No. I didn’t.” She snaps, pulling to two sides of Alfie’s jacket to cover her front. “Because it isn’t any of your concern.”

“It directly interrupts the agreed upon plan,” He shouts. “You clearly are well-connected to Sabini. Why didn’t you tell us?”

Her eyes flicker, and Alfie watches the darkness consume her, for the second time that evening. “I have my reasons for wanting him dead, just as you do, Tommy. I don’t need to explain myself any further.”

“Might I remind you, I’m fuckin’ paying you to do a job for us—”

“Yes. I remember.” She cuts him off. “And I wanted him dead, as well, that’s why I agreed. I don’t take work unless it serves me a purpose. You aren’t the only one who can run more than one job at a time, Thomas. Killing him doesn’t only make me your money.” She scoffs, shoving Alfie’s coat off of her shoulders. “Look, we’re done here.” 

“I don’t think we are, love,” Alfie says, feeling some semblance of responsibility to side with Tommy.

She cuts her eyes at him and shoves the coat at his chest. “Alright, well then, _I’m_ done here.”

Arthur groans, “Clairey—”

She cuts him off, turning on her heels. “Keep your money. Keep your share of Sabini’s territory. Clearly neither of you want me involved in this business.”

Tommy barks, “Claire—”

“Arthur, love, I’m so sorry,” She looks over at him, and gestures so the dead man, “Would you mind handling this for me?”

“Yes.” Arthur nods, “Of course.”

“I’ll take care of Sabini.” She says simply, offering Tommy a curt nod, “Like I gave my word I would. After this bit of business is done, I do not intend to entertain any more of your little propositions, Mr. Shelby. _Marcelle, allons-y,_”

“Oh, don’t be like that, love,” Alfie’s voice fills the large space as she leaves the opera house. The paired clicking of her and Marcelle’s shoes signal her exit, and she’s gone, just like that.

“How,” Arthur groans, his jaw clicking, “on _earth_, did you manage to fuck things up so royally?”

“Shut up, Arthur.” Tommy groans, his pointer and index fingers pressed against his eyes.

“No,” Arthur barks, making Tommy and Alfie look at him. He was angry, Alfie thought to himself, but not in the way he’d seen Arthur be angry before. That had been pure, unadulterated rage. This was a glare of a man who was losing something he cared about, and if Alfie knew anything about that Shelby man, he knew how much his loyalty was worth. “That’s one of yer’ closest fuckin’ friends you just pissed off. And not just piss her off, you embarrassed her, disrespected her, and now she’s fuckin’ done with you.”

“Yes, I fuckin’ know that!” Tommy shouts. “Y’don’t think I see that?”

Arthur takes a step closer to his brother. His voice is dark, hostile. “You better figure out a way to fix this, soon. Y’hear me? Because if you force any of us—me, John, Polly, fuckin’ _any_ of us—to pick between you and her? It’ll just be you and fuckin’ Solomons left.”

Alfie, for a moment, wants to call his bluff. The sheer dedication in Arthur’s crazed eyes makes him second-guess it. The man was serious, deathly serious. 


	7. Apologies and Situational Sobriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> I've got a reaaaally long chapter this go around. Hope it isn't too tedious a read. It honestly could have benefitted from being split in half, but splitting it up honestly felt a bit criminal, considering it's all one evening's events. 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy! All feedback is greatly appreciated! xx

Chapter Six: _Apologies and Situational Sobriety_

The following weeks went by slowly. Claire sulked about her estate for the first few days, refusing to speak to anyone—she didn’t take calls or see visitors. Marcelle attempted to entice her with just about everything she could think of. Drugs, women and sex, jewelry; but none of it worked. Dorothy, her lovely old housekeeper, was the only person Claire allowed in and out of her chambers, and even then only to bring her tea, which was the only thing the old woman could get her to consume. 

Claire had been tattered by her sudden severance from the Shelbys; just absolutely and utterly heartbroken. But she’d also been _angry_—so angry, that in a fit of rage, she’d dug her knife through a twenty-thousand pound painting in her study, and still hadn’t had the resolve to take it off the wall. 

It sat there, the top half separated from the bottom by a fierce, diagonal slit, each piece fluttering in the breeze that came through the opened windows; just like her relationship with the Shelbys. Torn, suddenly separated; with the potential of being mended, but never of ever returning to its original glory.

In the days following her desecration of a piece of Claude Monet’s art, she slowly put herself back together again. Jobs needed completing. There was people to play and money to be made. She’d spent the last three days hunched over her desk, crafting up her plan to con the Russians. Part of her motivation came from boredom—it was terribly boring to catch a fit in her study, when it meant being alone for days on end—but the other part, the more honest part, was the fact that she needed Alfie Solomons and Tommy Shelby out of her head. At the least, this would keep her mind busy. 

The Duchess Tatiana had been her favorite Petrovna; but since her dealings with Tommy, she had relocated to Vienna. That meant Claire’s dealings with the family would be through the duchess’ uncle, whom she cared for much less. He smelled of vodka and misplaced anger.

It was a simple job the Russians had contacted her to do—they needed an uninvolved third party to facilitate the authentication of a jewelry trade. Claire had done the same sort of work for them before, authenticating the royal provenance that the Cossacks smuggled into Britain for Izabella. She found their eccentric customs entertaining and their compensation suitable. That night, however, she would be unable to stick around for the raunchy festivities. 

It was over before it had really begun, honestly. The Germans had brought the real deal, seventy-five thousand pounds in sapphires and rubies, and Claire could barely resist the temptation to pocket a few of the smaller pieces. Compensation came in the form of a stack of notes from the disgraced duke, but Claire took it, and continued about the estate. It didn’t take long to find the jewelry box that the Sicilians sought—it was on display in the foyer—and within the span of a few hours, she was on her way back to Warwickshire. 

However, when her estate appeared in the view of her window, she spots a shiny silver car in her drive. Anger bloomed in her chest._ A silver Buggatti?_It had to be one of the Shelby brothers. The driver had barely stopped the car when she dove out of it, rushing into the house.

“_Did you let those insolent idiots into my house_?” Claire yells down the hall, and Marcelle appears in the doorway of her study. 

“_I tried to stop him_,” She huffs, clearly out of breath, “He insisted he must speak with you.” 

Claire stomps over, holding her satchel of stolen goods and dirty money, but stalls in the doorway. She had expected to see the cropped hair of a Shelby boy, either Tommy or Arthur—or John if they were desperate—come to apologize, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sees the broad-brimmed hat of Mr. Solomons, who rises to his feet.

“Claire,” He says curtly, “I would have called, but you’ve been ignoring those for weeks now.” 

She narrows her eyes, still a little confused, but enters the room fully, shutting the door behind her. She rounds her desk, and sets her things down. “What are you doing here, Mr. Solomons?”

“S’Alfie.” He frowns. “I’ve come to apologize in person, since you refuse my telephone calls.”

Claire is short and bitter with him. “I’d have refused your visit, as well, had I have been here when you arrived.” 

“I see.” He huffs. “Can’t help but notice it, yeah?” He nods at the wall behind her desk. The pieces of the Monet were sagging more than they had been since she’d last looked at it. “You do that to ‘at beautiful piece of art, Claire?”

She clicks her jaw shut, only slightly ashamed of her answer.“Yes.”

“‘At’s unfortunate.” He hums pensively, but offers nothing more on the matter. “Well, I wanted you to know, yeah, that I am indeed very sorry for how things transpired at our last meeting.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Mr. Solomons.” She says quietly. 

He grumbles, “Doesn’t make me feel any better about Tommy snappin’ off at you like ‘e did.” He settles down in the chair across from her desk, and strokes his beard, “I know I’ve got a history of pissin’ you off, goin’ about and upsettin’ ya. I’m sorry about it. Sometimes I say things and don’t exactly think about how people will perceive ‘em”

She raises an eyebrow. His apology is thick, but it’s also genuine; she can tell by the look in his eye and the tension in his shoulders. Alfie Solomons didn’t apologize to people. It wasn’t that he didn’t think about how people perceived his words—it was that he didn’t _care_. She knew that from the moment she laid eyes on him. So why did he care what she thought?

“Claire?” He asks quietly, “You with me?”

She clears her throat. “Well, Tommy is a grown man, and he can make his own decisions. It seems I am no longer among the company he wishes to keep. ”

“That’s not true.” Alfie tuts, “Couldn’t be further from the truth, love. The man’s broken up about it. His family ain’t makin’ things easy for him, either.”

“Good.” She hums.

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “I thought you two were _friends_—”

“So did I, Alfie.” She snaps, then more quietly repeats it, “So did I, but I thought wrong, apparently.”

“If it makes you feel any better, maybe you ought to know that our little deal’s fallen through.” Alfie tuts, crossing one heavy leg over the other. “We’ve good and well pissed the Italians off, now. They’ve started targeting our clubs. The races, too. Subtly, though. Nothing outright. Still pretendin’ to care about our agreements.” 

“Sorry to hear that.” She says.

“Yeah, well, Tommy’s gotten more of it than I ‘ave.” He sighs. “Keeps makin’ the wrong calls. Got his little brother shot at last week.”

“Finn?” Claire perks up, now. She was quite fond of Finn, which made her detest Tommy just a bit more.

“Yeah, he’s alright though. Little knick, s’all.”Alfie groans, taking in the concern on her face. “His family has got Tommy holed up out here, until he sorts his head out. Bit of a sabbatical, if you will, from the business. Polly an’ the sister is runnin’ things for them right now. But y’know how Polly is.”

“Yeah. I do” Claire tuts.

“Tommy wanted me to ask somethin’ of you.” He frowns, watching her roll her eyes, “Now, love, he just wants to reach out. An olive branch—settle old business right.”

She glares, but he continues.

“Right well, y’see,Sabini offered up one of his clubs as payment for the men Tommy lost. It’s opening this weekend. There’ll be a helluva party to celebrate,” He leans forward to deliver the last bit, “And Sabini will be there. Just a bit of a show, let the locals know the shift in ownership was on amicable terms. Tommy wants to offer the party as an opportunity for you.” 

“I know, Alfie.” Claire says passively. “ I’ve got dress picked out and everything.” 

The look on Alfie’s face is priceless. It almost makes her smile. “So, you’re working for him again. ‘Scuse me, _with_ him.”

“Just for the moment.” She glares at him. “Just until he pays me.”

His eyes narrow down, “And you still plan to kill him?”

“Of course.” She says, offended, “I gave you blokes my word that I would, didn’t I?” 

“That you did.” Alfie says slowly. He’s silent for a moment, and it’s almost as if Claire could see him working through it in his head—she almost wishes he would ask, instead of making whatever assumptions he was making, mentally. He finally speaks, and his voice is soft and playful. “You do some of your jumpin’ around London for Darby, then?” 

That gains a small smile. “No, I’m afraid it wasn’t all that dramatic. Just a little sleight of hand.” 

Again, quiet covers them. The only sound is the soft crackling from the fireplace, and the soft whipping of the canvas behind her. Alfie’s eyes settle on it again. 

“Tommy wants you to know that he’s sorry, yeah?” Alfie suddenly says, “He’s sorry, and he wants to fuckin’ tell ya, but you won’t pick up the phone, and he thinks if he comes up here, you’ll shoot him.”

“I probably would.” She hums. 

“I just—” He starts, but a soft grumble stops him.

“You just what?” 

He leans forward again, settling his chin on his cane. “I guess I’m just tryin’ to understand you, Claire.”

A soft flutter of a laugh escapes her, “I’m hardly difficult to understand, Mr. Solomons.” 

“Alfie.” He corrects, pursing his lips.

“Sure, _Alfie_.” She rolls her eyes. He smiles a soft smile at her.

“Well, so, you’ve known Tommy Shelby a long time, yes?”

“Yes.”

His brow lowers, “Longer than I ‘ave?”

“Perhaps.” 

“Well, now, see, Tommy Shelby, as long as I’ve fuckin’ known him, has one of the shortest fuckin’ fuses I’ve ever seen.” He opens his arms wide, to gesture, “It’s like he explodes, isn’t it? Fuckin’ blink and you’ll miss it goin’ off, yeah. Just all of a sudden, you’re deafened and someone or somethin’ is fuckin’ dead, and Tommy’s holdin’ the smoking barrel.” 

“And?”

“Claire, he’s got a nasty temper is all—”

“No,” She says bluntly. “It may seem like he does—but he doesn’t. That man thinks through everything he does; every second of his day is calculated, Alfie. Sometimes, yes, he thinks too quickly, doesn’t consider all aspects of things—but he’s thought about every bad decision he makes before he’s made it.”

“So?” Alfie leans forward, intrigued. 

“So, that night, whatever thinking he did may have been short, and irrational, but he’d thought about it. In that moment, he weighed the pros and cons of crossing me and decided that losing almost a decade of friendship was the choice he needed to make.”

“I see.” He hums, his eyes flickering. “Some kind of devil gets into that man, Claire. You ’n’ I both know it.” 

“Sure.” 

He’s careful with the way he picks his next words, “I don’t think Tommy’s ever made a bad decision he couldn’t live with, but this one? He’s proper fucked himself over, hasn’t he? He’s besides himself, love. Y’gotta understand, he saw his whole life—everything he an’ ‘at whole family fought so hard for—flash before his very eyes, because if you could betray him, who wouldn’t?”

She thinks about it. It pains her to consider it, but perhaps he was right. 

Perhaps she would feel the same way, had she have been in Tommy’s shoes. The man made his living trusting no one, and yet, he’d trusted her. Brought her into his home—trusted her with his son—and in that moment, where two no-name men sent by one of his biggest foes had identified her as a traitor, why _would_ he trust her?

“Perhaps you’re right.” She offers, after a moments contemplation. “Perhaps I’ll go see him.” 

A wolfish grin erupts on his face, and he taps his cane down twice, and howls, “Right then. I was hoping you’d say that. I’m just on my way there, now. I’d absolutely adore your company in visiting our dear friend, Miss Laurent.”

She squints up at him, initially feeling conned herself, but his little smile and the way it pushed his cheeks up, it made her want to laugh. “I should have expected such boldness from you, aye, Mr. Solomons.”

“Well, ‘at’s how you get things out of this life, yeah? You ask bold questions. The worst they could do is say no.” 

She loses her resolve and smiles at that. “Right.”

“What do you say? Nothing much, just a little stop to chat, exchange ‘I forgive you’s and you’ll be on your way back here,” he glances over her shoulder, glancing down at the sack she’d dropped on her desk. “To count up your spoils and add them to your treasury.” 

She arches an eyebrow, and offers a little smirk. “I suppose I’ve some time to spare.” 

***

Arrow house was much less threatening a place than Claire’s estate. It was just as large and pretentious, Alfie thought, but it was fitting for the people that inhabited it. Both he and Claire simply walked in when no one answered the door. 

Noise brought their attention to the opposite end of the hallway, where John had appeared. His eyes were wide, as if he was looking at a ghost. Alfie realizes his eyes are trained on Claire, so he very well might have seen a ghoul.

“Hello, John,” Claire offers, a soft smile on her lips.

“Oh, fuck.” Is all that comes from him. The petrified look on his pale face doesn’t wane, and Alfie laughs a deep throaty laugh at it. 

“Where is everyone?” Claire inquires, walking towards him, John takes steps back, away from her. She frowns, “John, love, if I wanted to hurt you, you’d be on the floor already.” 

That doesn’t do much to calm him, but he offers a scared little smile, “Hello, Clairey. Good to see you.” 

He hugs her, gingerly, as if he were afraid she’d pull a knife on him at any moment—a valid fear, considering the family’s standing. “Come now, where are the others?” 

“In the kitchen.” He says, and the three of them begin that way. 

Claire didn’t understand their preoccupation with meeting in the kitchen. She rarely saw the inside of her own kitchen, only if she wanted to pester Dorothy, or fetch a snack without bothering the maids. It was much warmer in there, she notices, what with the ovens baking things to consistently feed such a large family. 

“Good evening,” Claire hums to the room. Ada and Polly were stood near the counter around a platter of food, and Arthur, Michael, and Finn were sat at the table, dealing cards.

Upon entering the large room, she watches Arthur jump to his feet—almost dropping a bottle of whiskey in the process—and flinch away from her. That, too, makes Alfie laugh.

“Claire!” Polly exclaims, approaching her with open arms, “Darling, I’m so glad to see you here.” 

"You look well,” Claire comments, running a finger along a curl hung over her forehead. 

“I miss retirement.” She says, bluntly, which makes Claire giggle. “Maim him if you must, just don’t kill him.”

Claire leans in close and whispers, “Don’t think I could, if I wanted to, Pol.”

Polly pinches her cheek, and returns to her spot beside Ada. Arthur gives a little wave, and approaches her. 

“Clairey,” He draws out, “How are you?”

“I’m well,” She sings, “We’ve come to speak with Tommy. Is he busy?” 

“Busy?” Ada scoffs, “Busy drinking.” 

“Ada,” John barks, but Ada only rolls her eyes.

Claire’s eyes flit down to Finn, who looked scared enough to shake if it weren’t so warm in there. She notices the sling his arm is wrapped up in, “Finn, _mon doux,” _She hums, settling behind him, “I heard you were hurt.”

“Just a graze.” Finn supplies, and she can tell he was hesitant to explain further, should he incriminate Tommy. “I’ll be fine.” 

She arches an eyebrow and he blushes something furious. She looks over at Michael, who quickly spills, “Tommy sent him to instigate the Italians. See if they’d threaten a Shelby.”

John, again, barks, “Michael!”

“What?”Michael snaps back, “You wanna be the one to lie to her, take your own chances.” 

“Hm.” Claire hums, and returns her attention to Finn. “Go fetch your brother for me, ey Finn?”

Just as he rises to do so, heavy stomps approach from up the hall, as well as an incessant _click!click!click!_ directly behind it. Voices, one undoubtedly Tommy’s, grow louder as well. 

“I’ll take what I want, Frances, end of discussion.” Comes from him.

Then, a small feminine voice, “But Mr. Shelby, you’re not yourself. I’ll call the doctor!” The last part sounded like a threat, but when Tommy barges through the kitchen doors, he seems unbothered.

That is, until he notices Alfie, “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Alfie, offering a small smile, points at Claire. Tommy’s eyes settle on her, and he flinches, his eyes widening. 

“Hello Tommy,” She says sweetly, “I was hoping to have a little chat with you.” 

“A chat?” He repeats, unbelieving. Then, his eyes snapping to John, “You let her in?”

“No one was at the door, they just came in. You’ve had Frances trying to stop your drinking all evening.” John snaps at him, with more ferocity than either Claire or Alfie was used to seeing from the younger Shelby. 

“Right.” He huffs, looking down at the ground. “Perhaps we should take a walk.”

Her eyes flit to Alfie, who gives a little nod. “Shall we?” She offers, standing up, and ruffling Finn’s hair.

Tommy, having seen the little interaction, allows his curiosity to get the best of him, assuming malice. “Alfie, John’ll follow us.” He says, fetching his cigarettes, “Should she try to shoot me.”

She laughs, and follows the two of them out of the nice, warm kitchen, out into the cold hallway.

***

The grounds of arrow house were nice, Claire thought. Open, untouched grass lead out for yards, and was met by a thick, dense tree line. Tommy walks in-time beside her, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his hands swaying beside him. John, as asked to, followed behind them a few paces. 

“You should get yourself a gardener.” Claire breaks their silence. It hadn’t been uncomfortable silence, but the thought had just struck her. “A little garden for Charlie to run about in.”

“A gardener?” He asks quietly. 

“Yes.” She nods, “I have one, should you like to call him. Good at what he does—” 

“I’m sorry, Claire.” He says suddenly, as if it were burning his chest to come out. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” 

“It’s quite alright, Tommy.” She says gently.Tommy stalls in his spot, and it takes a few steps for Claire to realize she’d left him behind. “What? What is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘It’s quite alright’?” He folds his arms across his chest. “What happened to the _‘Go to hell, Tommy’_s I’ve been getting for weeks?”

She shrugs. “I’ve had a change of heart.” 

“And what caused that?” His jaw tenses, his eyes darken. 

“Mr. Solomons has given me a new outlook.” She shrugs again. “ I should have considered things from your perspective. Besides, life’s too short to hold grudges against the people you care for.” 

He purses his lips. Claire knew the look. “Who exactly is it you care for here, then? Is it me? Or them?” He gestures weakly back at the house.

She takes a step closer to him. “All of you.” 

“S’that so?” He hums. “I see.” 

“You don’t believe me.” She says knowingly.

“Not a fuckin’ fig.” He hums, and they continue walking. She smiles at his belligerence. 

“Alfie was right about you.” She sighs.

“Oh, It’s _‘Alfie’_ now, is it?”

“Well that’s his name.” She hums. “And, when he’s right about something, he’s right, isn’t he?”

After a breath, he nods. “Yes. It’s infuriating.” 

“Yes.

“You two came together, then?” He inquires, a frown settling on his lips. 

“Yes. He stopped by to apologize.”

“Did it work?” 

She pauses, and smiles at him, “Well, considering he hasn’t done anything to negate my forgiveness, I suppose so.” 

Tommy purses his lips again, fighting a smile. 

She glares at him, “What’s ‘at fuckin’ smirk about?”

He sighs, “Now, Claire, may I be honest with you?”

“Of course.”

He can’t fight the grin this time, “I don’t think Mr. Solomon’s intentions with you are purely platonic.”

She narrows her eyes at the side of his stupidly stern face. “Suggesting?”

“I don’t believe his interest is in gaining your ‘care’ as you put it.” He says in a soft breath.

“Don’t be daft, Tommy.” She scoffs, “I’m not dull. A blind man could see what Alfie’s after.”

“And yet you entertain him?” His eyebrows go up and he tuts, “Well, that’s mean. I thought you preferred women?”

“I do.” She hums, kicking her foot out a bit further than she had been before, to make her skirt fan out wider. “We’re less complicated creatures.”

Tommy chortles, and it seems he were growing consistently less-capable of hiding his emotion around Claire. 

“Just look at you,” She raises an eyebrow, “We fell out over a fickle, easily-avoidable miscommunication. I doubt I’d ever fall out with Polly like that.”

“That’s probably true.” He hums, crossing his hands behind his back. 

Her voice is serious when she continues, “But Polly isn’t you, Tommy. She’s a brilliant woman, and I love her to death, yeah?”

“But?”

“But she’s been out of the game too long. She doesn’t have the momentum to make the calls that will become necessary in the coming days.”

“Sabini?” His nose flares. “He’s made us.” Before Claire could explain, he pieces it together himself and scoffs, “Just us, then? Me and Solomons. Not you. Of course.” 

“This isn’t about you anymore, Tommy.” Before he could make the assumption, she adds, “It isn’t Mr. Solomons, either.” 

“You’ve your reasons for wanting him dead, yes, I recall.” He huffs. 

“Look,” she snaps, “This is a professional courtesy, Tommy. Get yourself together and back to work. An opportunity for the expansion of the Shelby Company Limited is coming. Alfie is ready to jump on what’s coming—I have no doubt he’ll take more than his share, if you aren’t there to claim yours.”

His eyes are shut, and he takes a breath, “Claire, I need to know—from you, alright? From _you. _Are you on my side?”

She blinks, not completely understanding, “What?”

“You ‘care’, yes? About me, about Charlie?” He asks, his voice weary, “Even if you work with the Italians, or the Russians—your loyalty, do I have it?” 

She wants to say that her loyalty didn’t belong to anyone but herself, as she’d told him many times before; but she realizes that that wasn’t entirely true. She pictures Arthur’s shy smile; Finn’s doe eyes—John’s smirk and his stupid oral fixation with toothpicks. She thinks of Charlie, his floppy blond hair and his big eyes—identical to his fathers—and realizes that her loyalty laid nowhere else but with this family. 

“Yes.” She says, and he exhales a heavy breath she hadn’t realized he was holding. “Of course, you idiot.”

“Then I’m back.” He huffs, scrubbing his hand over his jaw. “It’s—it’s just maddening, thinking you trust someone with your life, and then you fuck it all up.” He looks up at her, regret evident in his eyes, “I really am sorry, Claire.”

“I know.” She offers a little smile, and settles her hand on his cheek. “I’m on your side. I’ll be hesitant to involve myself in your business again, though.”

He nods. “I’ll respect that.”He glances over his shoulder and realizes John had stopped following them some time ago, as he’s nowhere to be seen. “Fuckin’ hell.” 

Claire smiles, “He left when you apologized the first time.” 

* * *

It felt strange for Alfie to see Thomas in such a casual, familial light. Tommy Shelby was supposed to be tough and calloused and have had a wall built up around him that was twelve thick inches of cement. He was supposed to be a symbol of how strategy and money could garner political standing—and he was, just not right then.

No, right then Tommy was none of those things. He looked placated, maybe even feeling a little warm from the whiskey. He sat back on the couch beside his sister, his head lulled back against the cushions, a small content smile on his lips. That was the effect Claire Laurent had on people, and with her smile and the warmth of liquor, none of them stood a chance at avoiding that happy, giggly contentement.

“So you put his fingers in a vice?” Polly asks, garnering little laughs and from the women in the room. The men were just as involved in the conversation, but it had taken a turn that made them all a bit disappointed in their sex, so they tapered their comments down but listened, enthused. 

“_Oui_,” Claire grins like a Cheshire cat. She adds a little kick of her leg, draping the long silk fabric over the opposite knee, and does a little gesture with her hand. “He used those fingers to touch things that weren’t his. He didn’t deserve them.”

“That’s all you use _your_ fingers for.” John quips, a bit of a hiccup on the last few words.

With the most seamless of eye rolls, Claire tuts, “Oh, Johnny-boy,”

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ve gone and started ‘er up again.” Tommy smiles, and it’s a genuine one, one Alfie recognizes as a smile you got amidst family, one that pushed your cheeks up high and you couldn’t fight it even if you tried to.

“See Johnny,” She says, picking up her glass again, not to drink from it, just to swirl it around and point it at the men in the room menacingly. “I can thieve and take _things_ that aren’t mine. Paintings, jewelry, money—they’re _things_. Women are not _things. _Men don’t understand that, so no offense boys, but I despise your sex._”_

Arthur spoke next, a sarcastic tilt to his words, “Good Lord, y’keep talkin’ like that and you’ll never find a nice lad to wed ya, Clairey.” 

“Fuck off,” She hums after a little laugh the room shared. “A man couldn’t handle me. ”

It was automatic, a shift in the room they all felt, as every single set of eyes in the room besides his own and Claire’s, landed on Alfie. 

Never one to shy away from attention, he felt most unlike himself, hyper aware of the glares and their insinuations. He takes a sip of his water to avoid coughing out of pure frustration.

“One day,” Tommy huffs, pulling Ada under his arm, “You’ll find yourself some bastard tough enough to handle you, Claire. He’ll smother you in diamonds and silks, and you’ll be up the duff right after the wedding. I’d put money on it.”

She scoffs, and rolls her eyes. “I highly doubt it.” 

“Why’s that?” Alfie can’t help but ask. 

She lowers his glass from her lips and looks out at him with glazed eyes. With the slightest of smiles, she coos,“I prefer women.” 

Finn’s eyebrows go up, and he whispers to Michael, “Marcelle?” 

Alfie connected the dots—her right hand, Marcelle. They were close—they fought together well, like _lovers_, he realizes. 

But Claire, a wide grin on her lips, taps her glass on the back of the youngest Shelby brother’s head, “No, Finny, Marcelle’s a friend.” 

“A friend.” John growls out and wags his eyebrows. “Of course.” 

“Yes, a friend.” She takes a glug of her whiskey. “Same way Tommy’s a friend. Or Mr. Solomons is a friend.”

John chokes on a laugh, “I’ve seen you kiss Marcelle. More than once.” 

“Oh, my.” Tommy coos, “Looks like he’s got you there, Clairey.”

She laughs, “I’m French, darling. We kiss friends! In greeting and farewell,” she hums, “In excitement as well.”

“Is that so?” 

“I’ve kissed Ada.” She offers, gesturing with her glass again.

They all look over at Ada for confirmation, she takes a sip of her wine and nods, "That she has."

"Right, and I'm sure I've kissed Arthur at least once." She rolls her eyes. "You Britons are such peculiar people—why _not_ kiss your friends?" 

Tommy perches an eyebrow. There's a hint of something playful in his voice. "You've kissed my brother, and not me?"

She returns the look, grinning "_Oui_, you're brother is quite the gentleman," She waves her hand, and arches an eyebrow "He completely understands the boundaries of my affection."

“Right,” Alfie almost chokes out, fumbling for his fob, “I should be going. It’s getting rather late.”

“Have you got to work in the morning, Alfie, love?” She bats her eyes up at him. 

He offers a little smile.”Work doesn’t ever stop.”

“Poo.” She hums. 

“Would you fancy a ride home?” He asks quietly, not avoiding sharp glares from the Shelby women. 

Tommy, partially out of jealousy since her attention had shifted away from him, volunteers, “You could stay the night, Claire. As Alfie says, it’s late.”

“No,” Claire re-adjusts her skirts, “I should head home. Marcelle will send men looking for me, soon.” She glances up at Alfie again, “If it’s out of your way, I could ring for a car?”

“No, it’s no problem.” He bellows, "I've to pass your estate anyway."

For a moment, it felt like they were the only people in the room—just the three of them. Claire's eyes focused on Alfie's—her lids dangerously low. Tommy was fixed on Claire, his eyes far more hungry that Alfie had expected from him. Immediately, Solomons understood. 

Thomas Shelby was not a man who dealt well with the things he couldn't have, because up until Claire, there _wasn't_ anything he couldn't have. Yet there she was, so deeply ingrained in his life now, something valuable to his business, and so he just had to pretend she wasn't waltzing around in silks and diamonds like the most gorgeous thing he'd set ever his eyes on. He couldn't fuck her, but he couldn't dismiss her either.  Claire Laurent was completely uncharted territory. 

* * *

Fortunately, Tommy didn't do much more disagreeing, only insisting on walking them to the front door. Claire concedes a little kiss—on the cheek, of course—and the heavy mahogany door shut behind them.

The pair approach his car, but Alfie balks, quickly sobering Claire up with the potential for danger.

His eyes are closed, she noticed, and when they snap open, it’s with an incredulous look, “D-Did you mean what you said in there? About despising men?”

She grins a lazy smile, and her eyes slowly blink, lulled by the persuasive pull of liquor, “_Oui_,_”_

His jaw slowly opens, “Why is that?”

She rolls her eyes and gestures with her hands, “You’re all so… fucking complicated. I just hate complicated things.”

“Not all of us are complicated creatures.” He hums, opening the car door for her. He didn’t seem content with that answer; Claire frowns. “Some of us are actually quite simple.”

She makes to enter the car, but before she can settle in the seat, she turns around, drapes her arms on the car door. Her face settles atop her arm, and she looks up at him through slitted eyes, “Do you consider yourself to be a simple man, then, Alfie?”

He pauses, feeling quite unsure of himself for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. “Perhaps, yes, I’m among the population of uncomplicated men.”

“Hm.” She hums. Then, she quickly decides, “No. I don’t think so.” And settles herself down in the car, shutting the door behind her.

Alfie’s stunned, but feels the need to defend himself, so he limps around the car quickly, to join her inside. “That’s hardly fair,”

Her head is laid against the cold window of the car door, laving in the cool, comforting touch. “I find you to be dizzyingly complicated,” She says slowly, “A tangled mess of things I don’t understand. It’s infuriating.” 

Alfie laughs. If she found him difficult to understand, it meant she’d spent a considerable amount of time thinking of him, didn’t it? He could work with that. “I’m hardly difficult to understand, ey? Same as you. Simple man with simple rules that govern a simple life.”

She laughs as well, “You consider this a simple life?” 

“As simple as a life can be, don’t you think?” He shrugs, hesitant to bring up business. It seemed that every time that topic arose between them, he offended her. “You either live your life in such a way that you get to see another day, or you die.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and when he looks up, she’s staring at him. He can’t exactly make out what’s in her eyes—it’s probably dulled by the liquor that was thick in her blood by now—but he can tell it isn’t hostile. As if it were a curse, she whispers, “You frustratingly interesting man.”

He laughs again, “You find me interesting, then? Good. I find you interesting as well.”

Claire hadn’t realized the car had begun moving, that is, until she turned her head to hide her blush, and got a little glimpse out the window. Arrow house was disappearing to her left.

“I don’t know anything about you, is all.” She supplies. 

“Well, what would you like to know?” He offers.

She purses her lips and returns her eyes to him, “I don’t know.” And with the booze making her bold, she whispers, “Everything.”

A shy smile covers him, and she can’t help but see some of his more boyish features. His lips are still full and round, like a little baby’s. His eyes, when they aren’t angry or crazed, are the sweetest shade of steel-blue, even reminding her of Marcelle’s. If she didn’t know about his reputation as a pilfering gangster, she could call him cute.

His voice is low, a promise she wasn’t certain she was ready for. “Well, I’ll tell you everything, darling, just pick where you want me to start.”

“Your family.” She decides, and although he recoils slightly, he doesn’t completely shut her out, so she adds,“Where’re you from?”

“London.” He says gently, “Born there. No family left, now. Dad ran, mum died. No brothers, sisters or nothin’.” 

“I see.” She says quietly. She wanted to apologize for starting with something so deep—she didn’t expect it to be such a damper—but he interrupts her thoughts.

“Wasn’t all bad. Mum was good to me, taught me what I needed to know. Hell of a woman, really.” He smiles at the memory, “Don’t think I turned out too bad.” 

“Not at all.” 

“What ‘bout you?” He smiles. “Lovely thing like yourself—are you like your mother at all?” She scoffs at the thought. My _God,_ she’d hated her mother. Her response makes him smile wider, “No?”

“No.” She groans, “She was awful.” Her voice is still playful, so Alfie’s fairly certain it’s an exaggeration. “She was a posh tart, pruned into a gentlewoman and married-off young. She was dreadfully obsessed with herself.” Alfie’s soft laugh makes her wiggle a little closer to him. “She made my siblings and I go through ettiquite training as children.” 

“’S ‘at not common for the children of gentlewomen?” Alfie arches an eyebrow. 

Claire leans back against the leather cushions, “Yes, just not before they’re properly _walking_.” She sighs, “The woman made us learn how to set a table before we could even speak in full fucking sentences.” 

“That sounds awful.” 

“It was awful.” She groans, but at the thought of his face, her voice perks up, “But my Daddy, now,”

Alfie tuts, a little uncomfortable with how Claire saying ‘_Daddy’ _made him feel. “Of course. That’s where it comes from. A gentleman—he probably spoiled you rotten.”

“No,” She pouts, “Quite the opposite, actually” A short snort punctuates her sentence—but she’s drunk enough to let it happen—and Alfie finds it endearing. “He’s to blame for putting all these ideas in my head and sending me off to school.”

“School?” Alfie furrows his brows. 

“Yes,” She huffs, “I studied at the _Conservetoire,_ in Paris.” 

“Is that so?” Alfie hums. He’d had no idea. He suddenly felt really, _really_ inferior in Claire’s presence. It was silly—she was the same woman she’d been five minutes ago, before her revelation—but he suddenly felt as though he was a child in a cultured adult’s presence. 

“For a time,” She nods, “But it was dreadfully boring. I didn’t want to read about art, I wanted to make it. To own it.” She’s quiet for a moment, before adding, “Besides, I got distracted.”

He hums and she continues, taking his hand into her own. 

He almost flinches, but her fingers are warm, and he realizes quickly that he’s enjoying the contact. “I became interested in jewelry—_that_, my mother approved of.” She turns his hands over and grazes the pad of her index finger over his rings. Settling on his thumb, he watches her eyes flutter deviously, “Sapphires?”

“Mhm,” He mumbles, quite enjoying her delicate touch. 

“They’re beautiful.” She hums, taking in their iridescence. Then, when faced with the thought of slipping it off of his finger and into her skirts when he wasn’t paying attention, she replaces his hand onto his lap. She was barely able to control herself when sober—the liquor was making it _exceptionally_ more difficult. “Lovely.”

The conversation had lulled, and he became slightly desperate to hear the song of her voice again, so he asks the question that was burning him, “So, Marcelle then? Just a friend you say. Friends from young?”

A slow smile takes her, and she sighs, “Not exactly—you see, she distracted me from my studies as well,” She says, her voice deepening. Alfie watches as she shuts her eyes and she’s clearly transported in her head to that time. It was magical to watch this woman’s quirks at play. She was a mystery he wanted to crack—a puzzle of which he wanted to see every piece for what it was, then fit them together and see what they made. “She was so good to me.”

“I see.” He says—but he didn’t, and she could see it in his eyes. So she clarifies, giving him the confirmation he’d been searching for.

“Yes, Alfie. We were lovers for a time.” She waves a hand. 

“I knew it!” He bellows, frightening the driver. “I fuckin’ knew it, mate. I seen the way she looked at you, darling, that’s not a friend. That’s a woman who’d murder and maim for you, ’n’ nothin’ drives a woman to that point but love.”

“And I for her.” She says solemnly, and Alfie almost thinks he’s struck a nerve, until she clarifies. “That was a long time ago. We work too well as partners in business to jeopardize that with romantic relations.” 

Alfie felt like she’d dumped a bucket of cold water on his head, “D-don’t you think one can manage both?”

“We tried.” She hums. “Didn’t work.” Then, after a pensive second, “Alfie, it’s a delicate balance, doing that sort of thing.Takes more effort than is worth maintaining. It drains you, constantly wondering if you’re fighting because of something you'd said, or if it’s _really_ because you took a client she despises.” 

“I see.” This time, he did see. 

It made his chest feel hollow. He hadn’t explicitly thought it, but it was knocking around in the back of his head—he wanted her. Marriage, elopement, a fuckin’ gypsy union on the cut, he’d give her whatever she wanted, but he also knew she was one of the sharpest businesswomen in the country, and he didn’t exactly want to ruin their potential business partnership. Clearly, she was versed enough to know that she couldn’t manage the two.

But Claire distracted him almost immediately, with another confession. First, a long leg crossed over the other, gaining his attention, then as if it were the most casual thing, “I absolutely miss her sex, though.” 

Alfie chokes, but covers it with a cough.

She looks over at him, “Have you ever fucked a Frenchwoman, Alfie?” 

He was blushing, _damn him_, he was _blushing_.“No, I’m afraid I ‘ave not.” 

Her head lulls back against the seat and her hand flies to her chest, over her heart, “My God,” She cries, “They’re the most darling creatures.” 

“Really?” He asks, noting her use of ‘they’ as if she weren’t the same ‘darling creature’ she were describing. 

“All of them,” She waves, “Every single one I’ve had—delectable.”

Alfie stills. He thought she would be delectable—he’d actually had that thought, more than once actually,since meeting her.Her little rant just confirmed it. There was a stirring in his pants, and she very suddenly is aware of it, no matter how his heavy coat covered it.

He isn’t sure what comes over him, but it does, at full force. “Then tell me, Claire,” And a sharp breath, “ Is that pretty little accent of yours real, then?” 

She pauses for a moment, her dark eyes meeting his bright ones. “_Oui._” She mewls. 

He curses under his breath, and the two of them only barely acknowledge that the vehicle had stopped outside of her estate, until the driver hopped out and opened her door. She offers a little smile, and exits. Alfie quickly goes out through his own door, and around the front to meet her. 

Before he could speak, she does. Her voice is low, suggestive. “Alfie,”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to,” She pauses, and he realizes she isn’t looking him in the eyes, most uncharacteristic of her. “Perhaps spend the night?”

In that moment, Alfie is certain, he’s faced with the most difficult decision he’s ever had to make. 

The woman stood there, in her pretty silk dress, and asked him to join her in bed, the very thing he’d dreamt of doing damn near every night since meeting her. He wants to say yes. My God, he wants to say yes. But the reality of the situation strikes him—if he wanted her, which he did, not just for one night, but for the rest of his miserable life—he couldn’t bed her just then. They hadn’t gotten to the point in their friendship where sex, casual as it may seem, was an option.

“I’m afraid I’ll be needed in London, first thing in the morning.” He says, instead of outright saying no. Hopefully she would take his excuse for what it was.

She did not. Her spine straightens, and she takes a sharp breath. “Of course. My apologies for being so bold.” 

He was going to respond, but she’d already turned on her heels and begun up the entrance. Two long steps of his matched four of hers, and he took her elbow in his hand. “Claire,” 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention tonight to anyone.” She says quietly. “About Marcelle. Or this.” 

“I wouldn’t.” He promises. 

“Right.” She hums, “Goodnight Mr. Solomons.”

He fixes to return the farewell, but she’s already in the doorway, and he’s left with the sound of the heavy cedar door shaking shut. 


	8. Fool Her Once

Chapter Seven: _Fool Her Once_

Claire had put a bit more effort into her appearance tonight, if she were being honest with herself. She liked to look good whenever she left the house, dressed in only the finest silk her dirty money could buy, but tonight especially, she had pulled out all the stops.

She’d taken a long, luxurious, searing-hot bath, slathered her body in rose scented oils and perfume. Deciding to dress for looks over functionality, she wore a floor length black silk gown, one that she’d had special little hook-and-eye latches sewn into the hem and her garters; the bottom half turned into a pair of loose trousers with just a little clasp. 

Her hair she’d decided to wear up—that bit was too big of a liability, and she couldn’t risk leaving out, no matter how much she preferred it down. Alfie, too, she thinks, preferred it down. He may have been the deciding factor that led to the roses, and the dress, and the fur; but she wouldn’t admit it. 

Donald walks himself around the car to get her door for her, and she steps out, one long leg at a time. “Should I park, miss?”

She digs in her purse for a few pounds, and takes the keys from him, “No. find yourself a ride home. I’ll drive back.”

His face is weary, a frown set deep in his older features. Donald knew the kind of work his boss did. He normally didn’t question it, so she kept him around and paid him well. “Are you going to be alright, Miss?”

“Yes.” She nods curtly, offering a little smile. He nods as well, and starts down the street. 

Upon entering the club, she was not disappointed. The Peaky Blinder’s newest conquest, evidently, had been renovated since it changed hands. The stage had been removed, replaced with a large dance floor. Heels clicked against the new black and white tiles as patrons danced to the upbeat music provided by the live jazz band. It was considerably louder, as well. 

She made her way to the bar, where Arthur was stood behind it, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Could I trouble you for one of those?”

He looks up at her and gapes, “Claire,” He stumbles for words, but sets the glass he’d poured in front of her. “Y’look lovely.”

She scrunches her nose up at him, “Thank you, darling.” 

“You needing Tommy?” He asks quietly, and she smiles, shaking her head. He changes the question, “You workin’ then?” 

She nods this time. He gapes again, and this time she frowns. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no.” He spills, “I just didn’t expect that sort of work to be happening tonight. Here.” 

She nods, “Just the first bit, darling.” She takes the glass and tips it at him, “Right have to run when it’s over, as well. Goodnight, Arthur. Send my best to the wife. ” 

“Goodnight, Claire.” He nods, watching her turn away and head down the bar.

She found herself a decent spot near the bar so she could sit in a high chair and peruse the room. Darby would notice her there. Of course, that meant everyone noticed her there. Men shot her loaded glances, eyes dancing down her body like they were wild animals and she were a piece of meat. It didn’t bother her anymore, she just had to strategically divert her attention whenever she held their glances too long, lest they mistake her glare for something inviting.

Suddenly, someone casts a shadow over her left side. Initially, she rolls her eyes at the sudden task of having to curb male attention, but she’s honestly confused when she looks up and sees a strangely attractive man. 

He’s got piercing blue eyes, and dark, floppy, black hair. His skin is pale, not ghastly, but pale in a pretty, unthreatening way. His voice is like velvet, “Good evening, miss.” 

She toned down her accent as best she could—the way she did when she met new people and was unsure if the French fell in their favor or not. “Good evening, sir.” 

“Not a fan of dancing?” He asks, looking out at the dance floor.

“No.” She offers simply. 

“I wanted to tell you how much I admire your jewels.” He says carefully. Her eyes snap back to his face, and she finds that he’s looking down at the necklace on her neck. 

It was a gold piece, set with a large teardrop-shaped sapphire set in the middle. She’d worn it honestly to catch Alfie’s eye, but this fellow’d seen it before the baker.

She tries to see if his eyes will dip lower and get a gratuitous glance at her cleavage, but they don’t. Instead, he looks as if he’s disinterested in her as a woman, and takes a sip from his glass, replacing his eyes on the crowd of dancing people.

“Thank you.” She offers, still staring at the side of his face. Part of her wonders if he’s actually familiar, or if her brain was trying to tell her he was a threat. He’s handsome in that pretty, refined way she finds most attractive of the other sex. Clean lines at the jaw, neck and shoulders, clothed sharply in designer suits.

“It was my sister’s.” He says quietly, not redirecting his eyes from the dancers, “Before that, my mum’s.” Then, after a swig of his drink, “At least it was, before you stole it.”

“Excuse me?” 

His eyes flit down to her and he purses his lips lightly. “Nikolai Mattis.” He offers his hand, but when she just stares at it, he pouts, and drops it back to his side. “No hard feelings, darling. I’m certain my father had stolen it for my mother in the first place. I’m just impressed with your skill, honestly. Talia was convinced the clasp had just come undone and she’d just lost it somewhere.”

“You’re mistaken.” She says gently. A bit of bite in her glare. He smiles at it.

“Am I?”

A voice comes from behind her, “This man botherin’ you, love?” and she immediately recognizes it as Alfie’s. 

“Only slightly,” She says, not removing her eyes from Nikolai’s. 

Mr. Mattis frowns. “My apologies. The last thing I wanted to do was offend. Have a good evening, then, miss.” And just like that, he turned and disappeared through the group of people crowding the bar. 

Alfie moved himself into her vision now, but her eyes searched where the mysterious Nikolai Mattis had gone. He’d said something—Alfie had—and she realizes that the other man was gone now, so she diverts her attention back to him, “Sorry, what?”

“I said you look beautiful.” He repeats, narrowing his eyes at her. “Did he cause you any trouble? I can have some boys find him—”

“No.” She says, all too quickly. “It’s quite alright. I promise.” 

He grunts in mild agreement, but also croons his neck to search for where the smaller man had disappeared off to. 

“He was admiring my necklace, is all.” She offers, trying to reign the conversation back in. “His mother had one like it, apparently.” 

Alfie gapes in realization now, “Y’mean he recognized it.” 

She shrugs. “I’m not concerned. He’s not angry. If anything, I’d say he’s impressed.” 

That made Alfie’s chest hot. He allowed his eyes to drop down to the piece, willing himself to keep his eyes on the beautiful stone and not delve any lower. It sat on her breastbone like it was made to be there, the most delicate gold fixings holding it to a thin gold chain. “S’definitely quite a piece.” 

Claire steps a bit closer to him, and is enveloped in the smell that was Alfie Solomons. A rich cologne with notes of sandalwood paired well with the spices of the rum he produces, both scents clinging to his skin most deliciously. She wondered if he tasted of it, as well.

Then, embarrassment cloaks her, as she remembers the last time she’d tried to find out what Alfie tasted like. To avoid him noticing her blush, she looks away from him. “Listen, if you don’t have anything else to say, then you should go. I’m working.”

“Really?” He hums, a little offended. “Sorry to bother you, then, Claire.”

“No, sorry,” She closes her eyes and reaches out, taking his arm and pulling him back. “I’m just a little frazzled. That man caught me off guard. I hate being blindsided. And Darby should be here soon.”

“Right.” He says, glancing down at her hand, still on his forearm. Slender fingers caped with ruby red polish. “Tommy said it’d be happening tonight. Wasn’t sure you’d show, though. After I pissed you off, again.”

She blushes this time, something furious, really, and he has to physically restrain himself from scooping her up and apologizing.

“Mr. Solomons, I’ll be transparent with you—that was the first time any of my advances of that particular nature had been rejected.” She flutters her eyelashes and takes another sip of her whisky, “But I’m quite capable of separating business from those sorts of things.” 

He bites his lip to control himself—it was difficult, considering she was stood there in her silks and her furs smelling like a goddamn rose. “Now, Claire, believe me it was _very_ difficult to resist said advance—”

“Yes, well, whoever she is,” She hums, patting the side of his bearded face. He was fuzzy rather than bristly when he wasn’t angry, like some sort of small animal, “I hope she appreciates your loyalty, _mon amor_.” 

His face goes blank, he barely gets out a little confused _‘wot’_ before she’s out of his grasp, heading towards the booths. His feet send him after her, but he realizes she’s walking towards Sabini, and stops himself. She’d assumed there was another woman, some woman he was being faithful to by not taking her up on her offer to join her that evening—and he hadn’t even had an opportunity to correct her. 

Tepid anger flows through him and so he stomps off to find Tommy. 

***

Claire did not find Darby to be an inherently ugly man. He was older than she and her cohorts, but he wasn’t unattractive. He had that air of arrogance about him, the type she thinks all men seems to have, only his was a bit denser and a bit less deserved. His looks were about him, handsome in that faint way, distinguished by age by specks of gray in his cropped hair; but he was sure of himself, and it made him naive, something Claire detests in men.

It made them easy to exploit, like she would with Darby tonight. 

He’s most gentlemanly, leading her into the booths on the far side of the club. And strategic, too. She knew he’d seen her talking with Mr. Solomons, so he led her to the side of the booth where she wouldn’t be able to see Alfie at the bar. 

His voice is slow and thick when he speaks, the Italian words coming much slower than she needed to understand them.“_I see you are rubbing shoulders with the rest of London’s underground_.”

She flutters her lashes at him; she knew he didn’t really care what she did for other businessmen—he was only miffed at the possibility that someone else could sleep with her before he did. The thought of being under Darby made her nauseous, but the thought that he saw their pairing as an eventuality rather than a potentiality made her angry.

Keeping her voice light and playful, she offers, “Who? Alfie?” She makes a disinterested sound, and shrugs.

“He seemed interested in you.” He hums. 

“Most men seem interested in me.” She frowns. “Typically for the same reason Mr. Solomons was.” The reality of the situation was _quite_ the opposite, as _she_ was the one interested in _him_ for that very reason.

“Do you plan to entertain him?” He inquires, his lips barely moving around a thick cigar. Anger bubbles deep in her stomach. 

“I do not.” She says, without the slightest hesitation, even though it felt as though the lie burned all the way out. “I’m not interested in the burly types of men.” She pouts, “You know I prefer girls, anyway.”

Almost on cue, Marcelle makes her way through the entrance. The two of them watch her approach; she’s a thin, creamy-white set of limbs, swathed in a deep, cinnamon-red velvet dress. She gained everyone else’s attention, too. At least, until the band started up again, and the drug-hyped dancers began swaying to the music. 

“I know.” He hums, and Marcelle makes her way towards the booth they were seated at. “Especially ‘at one.” 

Claire scrunches up her nose, and Marcelle stands beside the table obediently. “She’s here to secure my payment.”

“Of course, “ Darby says, and motions to a crony behind him. A tall, thin man steps forward, holding a briefcase. 

He clicks it open and shows her the contents.He begins to shut it, but she reaches a slender hand out, liftng the first row of bills up to be certain the bottom wasn’t just packed with straw. Sure enough, another clean row of notes are below, and she nods at Marcelle, who takes it off with it.

“I’ll be honest with you, Claire, since we’ve worked together for some time.” He says, again in that slow, grating voice. “I’m conflicted.”

“Why is that?” She swirls her whisky around its glass, thoroughly disinterested in whatever he was about to say. 

“My man, _Spinietta_, seems to be under the impression that you intended to kill me.” He says most casually, “Hired by Solomons and Shelby to do so.” 

She takes a breath and cocks an eyebrow. 

“I know,” He waves his hand a little, “It’s not like you’d just _tell _me if they’d paid you to off me.” 

“If they’d paid me to off you, you’d be dead.” She says quietly. And she meant it, too.

“Exactly.” He nods, but there’s something behind his eyes—it isn’t violent, Claire can tell, but appreciative. “I respect that.”

“Do you?” 

“I do.” He agrees quickly. “You take this sort of thing seriously, I know that. So, I’ll tell you what I think happened.”

“Please do.”

“I think,” He pauses to lick his lips, and Claire wants to shudder. “That you got stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’ve been good to you, and you to me, yes?”

She nods.

“But I think that Tommy’s also been good to you.” He says, a glint in his eyes, “And you had to choose, me or him.”

She offers a little hum of acknowledgement.

“But I need to know, if I had shown, instead of Marconi—would I be dead, Claire?” 

She watches him closely, trying to determine if he’d meant it or not. She’d heard dangerously similar words from one Thomas Shelby; she was certain that Tommy had meant his words, though. Now, as she saw through Darby’s words, she wonders if either man was cable of such genuine thoughts. 

“You’re mistaken.” She says, the lie coming out smooth and strong, convincing even her. She leans forward,“I had no intention of harming you, Darby.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” She hums, fluttering her eyes at him again—and it was working, his cigar lulled a little in his mouth. “Tommy was coming to you with an offer, running liquor through to America—opportunity’s past, don’t bother my head with it—an offer he’d asked me for my services in facilitating.”

“And Solomons?” 

“He was a part of that opportunity. Vital to it, really.” She says. She couldn’t help but make Solomons essential—_vital_ as she’d said—to her imagined opportunity. “Couldn’t have done it without his rum. ” Then after a little huff of a breath. “I’m surprised that you’d think I’d hurt you. Offended, actually.”

“I had no idea you were so fond of me.” He says, his voice coming out smooth and even. If she didn’t know him, she’d find it attractive, probably. 

She offers a smile—a killer smile—and he returns a small one of his own. “Darby, why don’t we go for a little walk? It’s awfully loud in here. I can tell you more of Tommy’s idea—it could have been wonderful for all four of us, if you had bothered to show up.” 

His tongue surfaces in his cheek, and he nods. A quick bark gives his men orders, and he’s on his feet in an instant, extending his arm to help her up. “I’m sorry to cause the loss of an opportunity to make you some money, darling.” 

She rises, sliding her hand up the arm he offers, most suggestively, “You’re bright, I’m certain you’ll think of a way to make it up to me.” 

A little smile plays at his lips, and they head for the doors, his men following behind.

***

Neither of them could see Alfie brooding over at the bar, which meant neither of them could see his white-knuckled grip on a glass of whiskey, nor his dark, hateful scowl, nor feel the heat from the anger clearly coming off of him. 

He watched them leave, and was certain—he had to find Tommy now. And he did, in the side-room of the bar, smoking a cigarette and bouncing his leg to expel nervous energy.

“She’s touchin’ on his arm out there, Tommy.” He bellows.

“She’s working.” Tommy replies, looking far off. 

“No, you didn’t see it.” He huffs, taking a sip from his glass—a gulp really.

“Thought you didn’t touch that stuff?” 

“Yeah, well I needed something to stop me from wandering over there and snapping his fuckin’ neck, didn’t I?” 

That makes Tommy laugh; but it’s short lived, and his scowl returns as he sucks on his cigarette. “What’s it matter to you, Alfie?”

Alfie stalls. He isn’t certain he’s reading Tommy right—for some reason, it was difficult to do tonight. He wasn’t sure if the scowl had been caused by something else, or if mentioning Claire and Darby had set it off. “Well what did I tell you the moment I met the woman?”

“That you wanted her,” He announces broadly, like Alfie had that night.

“Exactly,” Alfie says, and Tommy doesn’t exactly cut him off, but his response is fast.

“She isn’t exactly a woman to be kept, Alfie.” He lulls his head back in the chair, “She’s not going to sit around a house all day, sewing and poppin’ out babies.” 

“I wouldn’t ask her to.” He snaps.

“No, you’d try to keep things the way they are, wouldn’t you? Run your bakery, and let her sell her art? Let her run around London, doing God knows what with Marcelle?” He says with a touch more hostility than Alfie’d expected. “Well, I can tell you, that won’t work, Alfie. She’s not going to put you before her work. Ever. You’ll tell her to stay put, and she’ll go when your back is turned. It’s not in her nature to concede.” 

Alfie very suddenly wanted to tell Tommy how she’d been more than willing to _concede_ to him a few short nights ago, but he keeps his mouth shut. He just thought about Tommy, and why it felt like he’d had that bit of his speech typed up and folded over in his back pocket, carrying it around and waiting for the right moment to whip it out. 

“Besides,” Tommy says, his voice calmer now. “She like girls. She likes Marcelle.”

“We talked about Marcelle.” He offers, and Tommy’s icy eyes land on his face. “She doesn’t sleep with Marcelle anymore.”

Tommy blew smoke out in a smooth stripe but doesn’t say anything, so Alfie continues, “She’s convinced I have another woman. Dunno where the hell she got that idea, unless you’ve gone and put it in her head.”

“No,” Tommy says, a little relief evident in his voice, which makes Alfie pause. “Wasn’t me. Maybe Arthur. Protecting her virtue. Pious bastard.”

“Ya think there’s anything to worry about with her and Sabini?” Alfie asks, then adds, “Business wise.” Tommy’s sigh is long and labored, and he has a funny look on his face that Alfie doesn’t like. “What? What have you gone an’ done now?”

“I sent John after her.” He huffs, “For insurance.”

Alfie’s breath catches in his throat, and his knuckles almost crush the glass in his hand, “_You fuckin’ what?_”

“John is on foot, and Charlie’s on the Thames, to help her with the bodies.”

“You fuckin’ idiot.” Alfie bellows, “Why do you insist on pissing her off?”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? You wondered, same as me, and you asked me if I thought there was anything to worry about. Well, this is me being certain there won’t be anything to worry about.”

He watches Alfie grow so angry he couldn’t form words, and continues to defend himself, unprompted, as it clearly played on his conscious. “I have to, Alfie. This is my family we’re talking about. She crosses us and I’ve got a pack of Italians after my whole fuckin’ family.”

“She’s family too! You go and do shit like this,” Alfie yells, “Jeopardizing your relationship with her—_again_—and for what? A little insurance?”

“You’d do the same if you were in my position.” 

“No,” Alfie roars, “No, I wouldn’t. I’d trust her, you fuckin’ oaf. I’ve known her a fraction of the time youhave and I trust the woman with my life.” Then, realizing someone should intervene before she or Marcelle mistakenly shoot the man following them, unknowing that it was John, he sets his glass down. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To fuckin’ stop this madness.” 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Alfie spins around and glares at Tommy, “And why the fuck not?”

He blows out a stream of smoke, and for the first time ever, Alfie sees him choke on the plumes, “Be-because, she’ll be seeing red once John gets to her. You put yourself in the middle of that and she’ll think you were involved. You weren’t—but she won’t stick around long enough to hear that.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Alfie groans to himself. Tommy was right. “You right fuckin’ idiot.” 

Tommy only shrugs at that.

* * *

The night was rather cold, but the moon hung full in the sky, casting bright white light over the city. It was a beautiful setting, a wonderful time, but with the very last person she wanted to be with. Unfortunately for Claire, things _could_ be worse.

Things went to shit very, _very_, quickly. 

Darby and Claire had walked along the Thames like old friends, arm in arm, tossing their heads back in unbridled laughter. His was genuine, hers was not. His men followed behind them—she could hear their heavy boots. It was two of them, armed with pistols, probably, but that didn’t bother her. See, she knew Marcelle was close. 

Marcelle and two of Claire’s men were parked along this street in a moving van. They’d planned this moment out to the tee—each person knew their role and their exact purpose without fail. They were just happening upon the pedestrian bridge where the deed would be done. Marcelle and the others would take care of the cronies, she’d take Darby.

They’d roll up the bodies and dump them in the back of the van, and the boys would burn and bury any evidence along with the bodies.It should have been over before it had really begun. 

But, alas, things had gone to _shit_.

One of Darby’s men behind them had screamed—a gun had gone off, and in an instant, she had a gun drawn at Sabini and he had one at her. 

“What the fuck?” Claire roared, her eyes hesitant to leave Darby’s.

“You tell me, Princess.” He yells, “Why’d you have that gun so handy?” 

“I’m a woman, out at night with a gangster—am I not to have a gun handy?” She yells, glaring at him. Then, she heard Marcelle’s voice coming from behind her, fluid French. 

“_It’s fucking John!_” She says, and that—_well_, that made her peel her eyes off Darby’s gun and over to her right. 

Indeed, one of Darby’s men had John around the neck—and his face was turning red as he struggled to breathe. She speaks before she thinks, snapping her aim to the henchman, “Let him go.”

“Let him go?” Darby asks, “Fuckin’ let him go? What the hell is this, Claire?”

“How the hell would I know?” She snaps, trying to salvage the job, “But do you want to face his brother’swrath? I sure as hell don’t.”She cocks the gun, “I said let him go.” 

Darby was still aiming at her, “You bitch.” He says, the realization slow but evident in his voice. “You’re working with them.”

“I don’t have time for this,” She snaps, watching John turn blue. She weighs the options, and shoots John’s thigh. He crumbles to the ground—but at least he can breathe. Then, she quickly snaps her gun back to Darby. “Are you trying to get us both killed? You know Tommy would torture and kill us if we killed his brother!” 

“You think I’m dumb?” He says, stalking towards her. She lowers her gun. “You think I’m fuckin’ stupid, huh? You don’t think I see what this is?”

She begins to say something, but his hand is on her throat in an instant. She drops her gun and sends both of hers to his wrists, clawing at them; she fights for her breath, but he’s constricting her airways too well for any air to get in.Chokes fill the air, and Marcelle gives the call in French, signaling the men to come out from the shadows. 

Not that they really needed to, though. Because Marcelle had gotten the first of the two henchmen in the throat with a dagger, and the other one with a switchblade in the ear. 

Claire still struggled, watching the look on Darby’s face as he grew consumed by—_something_. She couldn’t tell what it was. It was angry, but she could tell that some primal, fucked-up part of him was enjoying hurting her. Years of pent up sexual aggression towards her manifested in the only way he’d managed to get his hands on her. But she cut his pleasure short. 

With a swift hand, she retrieves the knife she kept in her garter and slit his throat with a quick, jagged line. His eyes widen when he realizes what’s happened, and his hands leave her neck to clutch his own. Blood, thick and sticky, covered them, running down his front like a tap of the stuff had been opened on his throat. 

She hadn’t realized how hard she’d been coughing, until she’s interrupted by the sound of something wafting through the water. At the same time, having heard the noise approaching, Sebastien rushes up and drags Darby’s body towards the milk van. Marcelle helped the other boy with the other two bodies, leaving John on the ground, trying to prop himself up. 

A small boat had been the source of the noise, and she realizes slowly, that she recognized the man stood at the bow. 

Charlie _fucking_ Strong.

All of this excitement prevented her from processing this betrayal fully, but now that Darby was taken care of, she was feeling it. 

And it stung. 

But more so, it made her_ unbelievably, unexplainably_, and _thoroughly_ angry.

“You intolerable, asinine, meddling,_ fucking Shelby men_.” She says, her voice and body shaking in anger. 

Charlie, poor fool, seems thoroughly confused. Of course Thomas had roped Charlie in without an explanation. Fucking assholes, all of them. “Claire?”

“No!” She yells, her chest rising and falling faster than she felt she could prevent. “I just had to shoot John! Because you people don’t know when to _fuck off_!” 

She sees it now, Charlie was not the one to yell at. She storms over to John, still on the ground, clutching his thigh. He, also, probably wasn’t the one to yell at, but he was closer to it. 

“_Where is he? _” It didn’t even sound like a question. 

“I’m sorry, Claire,” He says, trying his best to soothe her anger, “He’s my brother—you gotta understand. If he asks something of me, I have do it.” 

She doesn’t even bat an eye. “Where the _fuck_ is he, John?”

“At the club. Alibis for when Sabini turns up missing.” 

“Bassy.” She barks, and the soldier is at her side in an instant. “Toss him onto Mr. Strong’s boat.”

_“Oui, Madame.”_

“And I mean _toss_. Make it hurt.”She barks, walking away from them both. She hears John wince as Sebastien helps him up, and the unmistakable sound as he connected with the wood of the little boat. 

Marcelle approaches. “_I’ll take the bodies back to Warwickshire, we’ll handle it.”_

Claire was grateful that Marcelle didn’t attempt to curb her anger, probably because Marcelle knew precisely how well-justified it was. She’s also glad because she wanted to save every bit of it, every drop, to unleash it on the right Shelby. So, Marcelle drops Sabini’s gun in her hand, covered half-way with his handkerchief, which would be proof enough she’d completed her half of the bargain. 

She doesn’t say another word, just wordlessly starts off in the direction she and Darby had come from, heading back to the club. 

Claire hears Sebastien inquire, “_Shouldn’t we stop her? What if she kills him?”_

Then, Marcelle sighs,_ “Better him than us.”_

***

The club is loud, the jazz band appeasing the crowds with music that sounds a lot like noise to Alfie. He glances down at his fob, catching the time. She’d been gone a while now, so had John, and a quick look at Tommy confirmed that the gypsy was having the same thought.

As if reading his mind, Ollie appears on the other side of the mob of dancing bodies, a little flutter of black silk behind him. _Claire_.

If he’d ever been afraid of a woman other than his mum when he was boy, it was in that very moment, of Claire. Her face was like stone, and although she didn’t look obviously angry, Alfie knew it was only because she had to keep up appearances. Her eyes had darkened from their chocolatey brown hue to the black of the eyeliner around them. Her makeup, it seemed, was still completely in tact, as if she hadn’t just murdered three men. 

She stalks up to the bar where Alfie and Tommy stood, settling between them. Her voice is sharp and dark, making both men shrink down on themselves. “_Move_.” 

Arthur appears in front of her, a soft look on his face, trying to gauge her mood before speaking.She doesn’t meet his eyes, just trifles through her little purse when he clears his throat and asks, “Clairey?”

Without a word, she sets Sabini’s gun onto the bar-top. Arthur scrambles to cover it with a rag.

Tommy makes a little sound of amusement, and Alfie’s eyes flit up to him. Tommy’s eyes, however, did not look amused. He looked as though he’d seen a ghost, his face paling just as rapidly as the cigarette he sucked on was dwindling. 

“It’s done.” She says carefully, still not looking at either of them. Arthur hurriedly pours a bit of scotch into a glass and sets it in front of her. Her voice clicked into a language Alfie didn’t understand, but by the perk of Tommy’s spine, he guessed it was Romani. 

She had begun walking away before Alfie could returned his eyes to her, and she seemed to be headed towards the little side room of the club, her fresh drink in hand. 

Tommy sighs, finishing his own drink off, he looks up at his brother, “Listen to me, if I’m not back in the next ten minutes, you come in, yeah? She’ll listen to you.” Then, he focuses on Alfie, “The plan is still in motion, give your boys the signal, and Arthur, tell Finn we’re a go on the factories.” 

Then, with a little huff and a dust of his jacket, he heads towards the side room behind her. The frosted glass offers privacy for just these sorts of arrangements, but both Arthur and Alfie sat at the bar wishing they could see inside. 

“That can only end badly, right?” Alfie asks.

“I dunno.” Arthur croaks, wringing his fingers together.

“Well y’know her best, right? What are the odds—”

He’s cut off by a loud crash coming from the side room. Fortunately it was only a punctuation of sound through the cascade of music, so none of the bars patrons paid too much attention to it. The pair focus on one of the frosted glass windows, where sticky amber liquid was sliding down against the inside. 

Alfie looks at Arthur, and the Shelby returns the gaze, a look of sheer terror on his face.

***

Inside the room, she hadn’t begun yelling yet. She didn’t even speak, actually. The full glass of whiskey thrown against the wall was enough of a statement.

Tom’s hands, which had flown up to protect his face from the glass he thought was coming towards it, slowly retreat. “I deserve this.”

She huffs, a wordless little ‘_yes_’. 

He points at her, “You deserve to be mad, yeah? I shouldn’t have done it without telling you, but for fuck’s sake, Claire, you can’t say you wouldn’t have done it too, if you were in my shoes.”

“I wouldn’t have.” She snaps, and Tommy sees that her hands are shaking. 

“Yes you would have!” He exclaims, “You’re unpredictable and crazy—and if you were me, you would have tailed you too.” 

“I would have known that you’d keep your word, Thomas, because I trusted you.”

He balks at her tense—trust_ed_ you. He doesn’t have any words to rebut it, so he just stands there, unable to speak for a moment.

“I see now that my faith was misplaced.”

“Don’t say that.” He complains, but before he can offer anything else, she takes a few little steps towards him, and it’s the most terrifying thing he has ever experienced. He felt the trickle of blood down the side of his face—a bit of the shattered glass had nicked his temple. “Claire,”

She doesn’t speak, she just continues walking towards him, to which he finds himself walking backwards, away from her. He only stops when he sees faint bruising on her neck. “What happened to you?” He asks, his eyes dancing over the darkening bruises. 

She doesn’t answer him, which was an answer, he realized. 

“Because of you, Darby Sabini almost strangled me to death.” She says, her voice clear and even. She was so angry, her eyes were incapable of staying still. Her irises seemed to be vibrating, for how quickly they were moving; but they stayed trained on his face—locked on his eyes, and he knows he’s in for it this time. “And I had to shoot John.”

His stomach drops down to his feet, through the ground and down to whatever hellish labyrinths exist below. Shock covers him—and she momentarily enjoys the look of utter fear on his face, before elaborating. 

“In the leg. Charlie took him. They’ve gone back to Birmingham.” 

He exhales, and she watches the fear go out with it, and _well_, that only made her angry again. She un-sheaths her blade and presses the serrated edge firmly against his throat. “_Don’t_. Don’t you dare look relieved.” 

“Claire—”

“No.” She shakes her head, pressing the knife closer, “No, you don’t get to explain. My life, Marcelle’s life—we could’ve died tonight, all because Thomas Shelby can’t stand the idea of something being done without him.” 

“That’s not—”

“I said _shut up!_” She yells, and the blade presses into him closer now, drawing blood just beneath his Adam’s apple. “Shut up,” She repeats, less angrily. 

Yes, the anger had died down now. She’d drawn a fleck of blood, and that stupid, loyal part of her heart told her she wouldn’t dare draw any more. The look in his eyes was repenting, truly, honestly sorry—but she’d seen it before. Tommy’s apologies meant nothing for the future. They were bandaids for yesterday’s scrapes, not protection from tomorrow’s backstab. 

Her voice shakes when she speaks now, “Do not contact me again, Thomas.”

“Claire—”

“Out of respect for your family—respect for Grace, and her son—I won’t kill you tonight.” She says, her voice stronger now, a promise. “But if you put yourself before me again, I will slit your throat, ear-to-ear, and watch you bleed.” 

Her eyes are hollow, empty, void of any of the affable, French charm she doles out on the regular. This was Claire when empty. This was Claire when crossed.

He barely manages a strangled, “Understood.”, but it was enough for her to let go of him. 

She doesn’t offer another word, she just turns and leaves as quickly as she came, a swirl of dark, long hair, and soft satin skirts.

She sheathes her knife on the way out, only allowing him to soak in the tired, broken look on her face. _Betrayal_, Tommy realizes, and he immediately realizes it was going to be one of the biggest regrets of his life. 

Alfie watches her storm out of the side room. She doesn’t even offer him and Arthur a second glance, she just gracefully makes her way through the crowd, towards the exit. He doesn’t realize his feet have launched him after her, until he’s on the street whipping his head in either direction, unaware as to which way she’d gone. 

He calls her name, but there’s no response. Then, he hears the rapid clicking of her heels on the cobblestones path between the buildings, and the jangling of keys. 

There, he finds her, fumbling with a small ring of keys in her hands. “Claire?” She doesn’t respond, only allowing the little sobs she couldn’t contain to escape. He realizes she’s crying, and he’s at her side in a moment, hands on her shoulders, “Claire?”

She shrugs out of his reach, “Don’t touch me.” She surrenders to her emotion, and tilts her face up to the sky, tears trailing grey lines through her makeup, down her cheeks. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“What happened?” He asks quietly, but barks when he sees the marks on her neck, his eyes going dark,“Fucking hell—did Tommy—”

“No.” She huffs, her voice breaking, “No. Darby.” 

“Claire, I—” He wants nothing more than to take her into his arms, but she takes another step away from him.

“Did you know?” She asks, her voice thick with tears. “Did you know Tommy sent them after me?”

He swallows, and she can’t prevent another sob from slipping out. It breaks Alfie’s fuckin’ heart in two. 

“Move.” She says softly, and he takes a step back just in time for her to open the car door. She slides in and turns the engine over with one smooth movement, and he dips his head down to the window.

A bruise was blooming on her neck—where Darby had apparently strangled her—and her hair had come undone, tumbling around her shoulders. Standing where she had just been, he could still smell the faintest bit of her rose perfume, mixed with the smell of petrol coming from the car. Her tears rolled down her face and disappeared seamlessly into her midnight black dress. 

“Claire, please, talk to me?” He begs, “Tell me what’s happened. Let me help you.”

She doesn’t answer, just taps on the gas once, letting the car jerk forward to tell Alfie to step away. When he does, the car lurches forward and turns onto the street. 


End file.
